


One Big Happy Family

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Complete, Conflict Resolution, Empty Nest Syndrome, Family Drama, Family Issues, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Surprise Party, Surprises, Unexpected Visitors, more surprises, old-fashioned ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Trixie is turning 21, and she's about to get a real surprise--visitors from Crabapple Farm descend on the California Beldens. Bobby isn't thrilled with the idea of going, but events are about to change his mind. Helen discovers she doesn't know her offspring as well as she thought she did. And Trixie proves that family comes in all shapes and sizes.





	1. The Copperhead Kid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



We left Crabapple Farm way before it was daylight--like, five a.m.--to catch our first plane. Five a.m. on the east coast, that is, and now we’re in California and it’s after nine, which is midnight on the east coast, and Moms looks like a zombie. We had a long layover at Dallas-Ft. Worth, no food worth mentioning, and I’m starving. All she can talk about is what a wonderful surprise this is going to be for Trixie, who’s turning 21 the day after tomorrow.

I’m not so sure it’s going to be that wonderful. Yeah, getting to see California might be cool, but I’d rather not have too much parental supervision, if you know what I mean. They always want to see ‘educational’ stuff--boring!--and shoot down my ideas for fun 

“No, Bobby, you’re _not_ going to miss your sister’s birthday. Your father will meet us there and we can all celebrate together, won’t that be nice? You’re going and that’s that!” was the answer I got when I suggested they save money on a ticket and let me stay home alone. Good grief, I’m fifteen and not a complete idiot. What do they think I’m going to do, burn the place down?

I have my learner’s permit. Moms is so wiped out I’m probably a way safer driver than she is at this point, but NO, I can’t drive the rental car, I’m too young, I’m not a listed driver…see what I mean about buzzkill?

After narrowly avoiding death by freeway repeatedly on the way from the airport, we’re finally at the farm when Trixie and Mart are. Mart dropped out of college and bought the place with what was supposed to be his tuition money, and if you think our folks were happy about that, ha ha! Dad, who’s a banker, got a whole bunch of new grey hairs, and when Trixie said she was joining him in the venture, Moms cried for days. 

That all went down…it was a year in October, and it’s April now, so about a year-and-a-half ago. They’re smart, because they haven’t been back since. Too much to do on the farm, they say when the subject comes up. 

It’s about to bite them in the ass, though, because surprise, Crabapple Farm is coming to them, with the exception of our oldest brother, Brian. He’s got the perfectly legitimate excuse of medical school to give him a hall pass. And besides, he’s at least come by once in a while for dinner when he isn’t on call. Moms has had a chance to fuss over him, unlike Trixie and Mart, who do call regularly, but not as often as she’d like. 

When you hear someone’s living on a farm, you probably think of a farmhouse, right? Something out of The Waltons or Little House on the Prairie. This place? Looks like aliens dropped a golf ball in the middle of an orange grove. Or maybe it’s supposed to be an igloo. Anyway, it’s different.

There’s a front porch with chairs on it, and the front door has a light over it. Moms rings the bell, anticipation coming off her like static electricity.

There’s a moment of suspense, then the door is opened by none other than my brother Mart. I don’t know who he was expecting, but it sure wasn’t us. The look on his face as the sight of us is almost worth coming sixteen hours and twenty-five hundred miles to see. 

Moms throws her arms around him, and he looks over her shoulder at me and mouths, “What the--?” I snicker--I can’t help it. This trip may not be a total snooze after all.

“Where’s Trixie?” she demands as soon as she releases him.

“Uh…in the shower?” Mart blinks. “Have you guys been to your hotel yet? You both look really tired, maybe you should do that first--”

“Nonsense!” Moms steamrollers past him, and I follow with a grin.

The igloo is mostly one big room. There are compass points painted on the ceiling, stairs going up to what looks like a loft, and over to one side a movie is paused on a big screen TV. I spot what looks like a bowl of popcorn sitting on a coffee table, and I head for that while Moms indignantly tells Mart that she isn’t going anywhere until she sees Trixie.

When I settle onto the couch, what I thought was an empty sleeping bag moves.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” I stammer as the guy under it blinks at me.

He tilts his head to study me. Looks over toward the quiet but intense discussion going on between Mart and Moms. “You’re not the pizza guy. Let me guess,” he yawns. “You’re the Copperhead Kid, right? Bobby?”

The Copperhead Kid? Nobody has ever called me that. It’s like it’s some kind of wild west meme: ’This is your Cowboy Name!’. I feel about 500% cooler instantly.

Meanwhile, the sofa’s occupant sits up, raking his hair back with his fingers. He has dark roots, but the last half-inch or so is peroxide blonde. The tuft of yellow makes him look like a honeybadger, which goes with his inquisitive brown eyes and narrow face. I make a note not to piss him off in case he’s got the temperament to match.

“Ooh, this is going to be good,” he says to me with suppressed glee. “The shower just went off.”

Okay, so Trixie’s going to be out pretty soon, and maybe we can get something to eat. I’m not about to go for the popcorn now--Honeybadger might be territorial.

Mart shoots an agonized look in our direction. Honeybadger shrugs.

Then a door below the loft opens. There’s a puff of steam, and Trixie darts out, giggling, wrapped only in a white towel, and pursued by a towel-clad black bear.

_”Beatrix Belden!”_

She slides to a halt, stares at our mother and the first words out of her mouth are, “What the hell?!”

Oh. My. God. Moms does not approve of that kind of language from any of us, much less precious baby girl Trixie. Trixie, meanwhile, glares at Mart, who’s waving his hands in a ‘Don’t look at me, this wasn’t my idea!’ kind of way.

“What are you doing here?” Trixie asks with her usual tact. Yeah, surprise! This is definitely worth coming to see.

“Is that how you talk to your mother?” Moms’s voice is high and strained. “For that matter, what on earth are you doing running around half-naked? And--” She stares at the guy with my sister--Mr. Tall, Dark and Furry. “--in mixed company!”

Honeybadger chuckles quietly beside me. It’s like watching a play, an impression reinforced when Honeybadger grabs the popcorn bowl from the table and offers it to me. I snag a fistful.

“Who’s the guy?” I whisper, not wanting to distract the actors.

“Jupiter Jones. He’s okay.”

Jupiter Jones? What a name! He’s a big guy, though, so it kind of fits. “Are they doing the deed?”

“What do you think?”

I think Moms is going to lose her mind. I had a hard enough time listening to her lecture about why it’s important to remain ‘pure’ until marriage--I can’t even imagine what she’s told Trixie.

“I wasn’t expecting company!” Trixie retorts. “I was raised not to just barge in on people, or have you forgotten the time Aunt Donna and Uncle Bo showed up with the cousins at 4:30 in the afternoon expecting dinner and a place to stay? You griped about that for weeks! And yet, here you are!”

“A good thing I am, young lady! You seem to have forgotten all decorum--and a bathrobe!”

“Oh, I’m sorry! The towel bothers you?” Trixie whips off the towel and stands there absolutely naked and unrepentant. She reaches for her boyfriend’s towel, too, but he evades her and exits through a door at the back of the dome.

Mart covers his face with his hands. Honeybadger has a hand over his mouth, but I can hear him snorting with laughter. Neither of them seem surprised, though.

I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.

At that moment, the doorbell rings. “Oh, good, the pizzas are here,” says Honeybadger to my brother. “Although this time, maybe you should check to make sure first.”

Mart grimaces, and makes his way to the door. A moment later, he’s back with two pizza boxes and a grease-stained paper bag. 

The discussion between the Belden femmes is still going on in the background. 

“This is my home!” Trixie shrills, “And I’ll wear whatever I darn want, whether it’s a towel, a fig leaf or my birthday suit!”

Mart plonks the food down on the kitchen island. “Dinner is served!” he says loudly.

As if on cue, Jupiter returns. He’s wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, and he’s holding something blue that turns out to be a robe. Trixie looks at it, looks at him, and slips it on and ties the sash. Without further ado, she tears a paper towel off the roll, opens a box and grabs a slice of pizza. 

“Have you eaten?” she asks with exquisite courtesy. “Feel free to join us.”

Nobody has to tell me twice, although I don’t think she’s even noticed I’m here until now. She waves her slice in my direction, but her mouth is full. Clearly, she isn’t planning to dress for dinner. 

Moms is making little teakettle noises, like she’s about to start hollering, but doesn’t know where to start.

Everyone else is digging in to the za, which is pretty good for not being New York pizza. There’s nothing weird on it--hey, I’ve heard Californians put avocado on _everything_ \--although the sausage is spicier than the usual Italian-style I’m used to.

“Your father will be here tomorrow,” Moms announces. It sounds like the old warning, ‘Wait til your father gets home!’--but really, what does she think he’s going to do to Trixie, ground her?

“Great!” Mart sounds enthusiastic at the prospect. 

Moms suspects sarcasm, but expands on the topic. “He’s been at a conference in Chicago. It’s over now, and he’s flying out on a red-eye. We wanted to surprise Trixie for her birthday.”

“Surprise!” Mart says to Trixie in sepulchral tones.

Honeybadger smirks, which draws our mother’s attention to him. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce your friends?” she asks pointedly. If the look Honeybadger got was cool, it’s nothing compared to the glare Jupiter gets for being caught in dishabille with her daughter.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Belden!” Honeybadger chimes in. “I’m Ben Norris, I work here on the farm, and this is Jupiter Jones.” He smiles, projecting friendliness, and Moms is at lest partially placated. But then, Ben hasn’t been cavorting with her daughter in the shower.

“It’s nice to meet you Mrs. Belden,” Jupiter agrees. He’s not trying to be jovial, but he’s polite, offering his hand, not acting guilty--I hold my breath to see how she’ll react.

“And how do _you_ fit in here?” she wants to know. Frosty.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Moms! I work at the Jones Salvage Yard. I’ve only mentioned it about five hundred times!” There’s a spatter of tomato sauce on Trixie’s chin, making her look as if she’s already drawn first blood.

“I see.” Icy, verging on snowpocalypse. In a minute, she’ll start accusing him of sexual harassment in the workplace, I’m pretty sure. Round two is shaping up to be a doozy.

“Could you excuse us for a moment?” Jupe draws Trixie into whatever the back room is.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Moms snaps. “I’m very disappointed in you, Martin! I expected you to do a better job of looking after your sister than this!”

“Whoa, hold on!” he protests. “She’s over eighteen--almost twenty-one!--she can look after herself! Jupe’s a good guy, she could do a lot worse.”

“You can’t tell me you condone such wanton behavior?”

“She’s an adult, and it’s none of my business,” my brother reminds her firmly. “She’s not playing the field; she and Jupe have been together pretty much since she got here, and they’re happy. What’s wrong with that?”

Oh boy. She tells him at length about morals and propriety and a load of other crap that nobody but her gives a hoot about these days. Saying Moms is a little old-fashioned is like saying Godzilla is a larger-than-average lizard. She's a throwback to the 1950's--and she wasn't even born in the 1950's!

Mart doesn’t seem to be listening to her diatribe--who can blame him? I think I hear a car engine start up out back, rumbling. Ben nods at my questioning look. Jupiter has probably said good night to Trixie and fled the wrath of Moms. Can’t blame him, either. It’s Trixie I feel sorry for. She’s going to get an earful.

Except, not tonight. When Moms gets her second wind and charges out the back door--it leads to Trixie’s bedroom--she’s gone. Her car is gone. She and Jupiter have both scrammed, which is the most sensible course of action as far as I’m concerned. 

Without consulting Mart, Moms decides that we’ll be staying here tonight. She’ll camp out in Trixie’s room. (I think she actually believes Trixie’s going to be back tonight. Ha! No way!) I’m to crash on the couch. 

I dutifully retrieve the overnight bags we had as carry-ons. I’m wiped--it’s been a long-ass day--and after four slices of pizza, I’m ready to hit the sack.

While Moms is in the other room getting ready for bed, I observe Ben--who I will always think of as Honeybadger--climb the stairs to the loft. Mart tidies the kitchen, wrapping the remains of the pizza in tinfoil and sticking it and the leftover garlic knots in the fridge.

Moms storms back out. “This was under your sister’s pillow!” She waves a small square at Mart, who just sighs at the sight of the condom packet.

“Would you rather she _didn’t_ use protection?” he asks.

She’s wailing about my sister's lost virtue as she exits, and Mart shakes him head. “If I was a gambling man, I’d bet five bucks Trixie left that there on purpose,” he mutters to me. “Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment. Good night, kiddo. Sleep tight.”

Then he mounts the stairs to the loft where Honeybadger awaits. I’m pretty sure there’s not enough room for more than one bed up there. Over the years, I’ve had a few sneaking suspicions about how Mart swings--not that I care, one way or another--but Moms hasn’t. I've heard her ask him on the phone if she's met any nice girls 'out there'. Wait til this comes out, pun intended.

The next thrilling installment? I can hardly wait!

…


	2. Don't Ask, Don't Tell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beldens' California vacation continues, and Mrs. B. is not having a good morning after.

I awake up horny from a really great dream about hiding from some bad guys…in a closet…with a certain action-movie stud hunk. And when I wake up like that, I automatically reach out to share the love, but Daddy-o hisses at me to stop. 

Startled, I look at him. He’s gesturing frantically toward the stairs with a finger to his lips. 

I can’t imagine what’s come over him. Usually he’s perfectly happy to start the day with a quickie. Then he whispers, “We have _guests,_ remember?”

Well, hell. I forgot his mom and kid brother showed up out of the blue last night, but now that he mentions it, the whole thing comes back in technicolor. His mother has some archaic ideas about sex before marriage (She’s not in favor.) and things got intense. Trixie had a spectacular meltdown and took off with Jupiter, and the visitors are camped out downstairs.

“Trixie texted me,” Daddy-o says quietly. “She stayed with Jupe last night, so she’s already at work. She wants us to look after Cecil for her.”

“Oh, no!” I protest. “I’m the chicken guy in more ways than one--that thing intimidates the hell out of me! You know about horses, you do whatever needs to be done!”

“I love you, baby, but you’ve got to get used to him. He’s mellow old guy, as horses go.”

I continue to shake my head, and he finally sighs. “Okay. I’ll do it--it’s not that big a deal. Especially since you’re going to be stuck doing the deliveries solo today.”

“I am?”

“Leave Moms here without supervision? Not a chance. You may have noticed she isn’t real good with boundaries. She’d be into everything, and I do mean everything.” His voice sinks from a murmur to a breathy whisper. “I do _not_ want to have to explain the contents of our toy box to her.”

The thought of Mart’s old-fashioned mama staring in perplexity at a pair of nipple clamps or a personal battery-operated device makes me giggle.

“It’s not funny!”

“Of course it is, Daddy-o,” I chuckle. “You’ll probably think it’s freaking hysterical once she’s back on her own side of the continent.”

“And please don’t call me that.”

“I’ll try.” I’m not used to calling him ‘Mart’. It’s either Daddy-o or Your Imperial Majesty or even Boy (when he wants me to top him)--his given name is going to take conscious effort on my part.

“Are you…do you want to keep things on the down-low so she doesn’t figure it out?”

“She’s already going nuts about Trixie. I don’t want to send her over the edge completely.”

“What about your dad?” The Belden paterfamilias is flying in later today, and that kind of worries me. Daddy-o--Mart--has had a series of loans from his folks, and I’m not sure he can afford to alienate them And if his father is anything like mine…my stomach clenches up at the memory.

“He’s not nearly as uptight as she is, but I figure don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“So we can tag-team,” I say, throwing back the covers. “I’ll go take care of the chickens, then you can see to Cecil. And while you’re at it, you might want to put the goodies out by the stock tank in a more secure location.”

Although we sometimes have to share the stock tank with Trixie’s horse, we still have our share of romantic evenings out there, and like the bedroom toy box, the bucketful of stuff that lives out there wouldn’t contribute to Mrs. B’s peace of mind. 

“Right.” Mart pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s my mother, and I love her--but I really wish she’d just sent Trixie a card.”

“Tell me about it.” 

I’ve skinned into jeans and a tee shirt while we were talking. My work boots are by the downstairs airlock so they won’t track in guano. I lope down the stairs.

Mart’s brother, Bobby, has the TV on with the sound very low--it’s some black and white Western-- and he glances over eagerly as I cross to the airlock door. He’s already dressed, I notice. Of course, he’s used to Eastern time, where it’s nearly nine. 

He’s been awake for a while. “I snagged the last of the pizza, I hope that’s okay,” he tells me.

I remember what it’s like to be that age and perpetually hungry. “No problem. You want to come take a look around?” He kills the TV, which I take to mean ‘yes’. 

Tugging on my boots and shrugging on a flannel shirt over my tee, I open the side door. Jupiter helped us put it in after we converted the old back porch into Trixie’s room, so we wouldn’t be disturbing her every time we went in and out. It’s on the side closest to the out-buildings, so it’s worked out nicely.

Late April in SoCal is warm during the day, though at sunrise, it’s still on the cool side. I’m glad for the shirt, although Bobby doesn’t seem to mind the slight chill.

“Is it a lot colder in New York at this time of year?” 

“We had snow a couple weeks ago. It only lasted a day or two before we got rain and it all melted, though. Are you from around here? Have you ever even seen snow?”

“I’ve lived here most of my life, but I’ve been to place with snow.” It’s pretty to look at, but I don’t really like it. I hate being cold.

Since I’m sure Mart’s going to want to give his family the tour, I vaguely wave in the directions of the pond, the garden plot, the greenhouse, et al. Meanwhile, I make a beeline for the chicken coop, which currently boasts about two hundred Rhode Island Reds and 80-odd Araucanas.

“Those are some freaky looking birds,” Bobby says, staring at them. 

They’re a rare breed, with tufts on either side of their heads, and as Mart puts it, no ass. The breed standard calls it “rumpless”--unlike the Reds with their prominent tail-feathers, the Araucanas have sloping, rounded backsides with small pinfeathers.

I scoop up the hen who’s waddled over to me. “This is Maude. She hatched in my hands, and it was love at first sight.” Until then, I’d still been a little leery of the chickens--hey, I didn’t grow up with barnyard fowl!--but that tiny peeping chick cupped in my palm sold me. 

The Araucanas are my especial babies--they lay blue eggs, and as we’ve built up the laying stock, I’ve introduced the gimmick of including at least one blue egg in every dozen we deliver. (To residential customers, that is. The commercial places are fine with the ordinary tan eggs from the Reds.) Everybody else wanted blue eggs at Easter--I’m hoping to be better able to meet the demand next year. 

I explain all this to Bobby while I’m measuring out feed and collecting eggs. Having a captive audience, it’s easy to ramble on about how we’ve been building up the business and the plans we have for expansion and my ideas for marketing. The eggs aren’t a huge money-maker, but in concert with the produce service, we’re doing better than breaking even. Add Trixie’s canning efforts, and we’re doing pretty well. 

“She sent us some for Christmas last year,” he volunteers. “It’s okay, if you like marmalade.”

“There’s a cannery a couple miles from here, we’d love to get our hands on that. Making batches of marmalade in the kitchen is kind of limiting! The trouble is, it’s been shut down for years. Even if we could afford the place itself, the cost of getting it up and running would be horrendous.” 

In a couple years, I’ve got an inheritance coming to me from my great-uncle’s estate. I’ve imagined surprising Mart and Trixie with the cannery for Christmas. I don’t know if it’s going to be enough to swing the deal, but it’s one of my happy daydreams. Trixie will be dancing with glee at the prospect of not having to cook in five-gallon batches, and Daddy-o will hug and kiss me a lot while she’s investigating the machinery….

Meanwhile, I ask if Bobby wants to ride along with me while I make produce deliveries this morning. He’s surprisingly enthusiastic--well, it’s bound to be more fun than sitting around watching old reruns. At least he’ll get to see some of the countryside, and we can get lunch afterward.

When we get back to the dome, the atmosphere is tense. Mrs. B. is up, and she and Mart are slanging in the middle of the kitchen as we come in with baskets of eggs.

“Uh-oh,” says Bobby. “Now what?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she snaps.

Mart rolls his eyes in my direction. “She’s trying to rearrange the kitchen,” he explains in a low voice.

“ _Trixie’s_ kitchen? Jesus.” Trixie is very particular about how she has things, and we both know better than to move them around. 

“They have the weirdest chickens!” Bobby seems to be trying to change the subject, holding out the basket he’s carrying. “Look--they lay blue eggs! Aren’t they cool?”

“She tossed the house blend,” Mart confides as his mother studies the surplus blue eggs. “Emptied out the grinder and was about to dump the whole rest of the jar in the trash when I stopped her.”

Trixie has invented a mix of spices that she refers to as the house blend, and she’d flip if her efforts unceremoniously disappeared. We can refill the grinder from the big jar of the stuff, but if all that got trashed? “Thanks for postponing World War Three.”

“What kind of chickens do you have?” Mrs. B. inquires.

“Most of them are ordinary Rhode Island Reds,” I answer her, because Mart handles the agriculture side of things while I'm responsible for the hen house. “But the blue eggs are from a breed called Araucanas. They aren’t as hardy as the Reds, but with a little extra care, the results are pretty spectacular.”

She doesn’t return my smile. Usually I can charm older ladies, but not this one.

“I’m going to check on Cecil.” Mart bolts for the door.

“Who’s Cecil?” Bobby wants to know.

“Your sister’s horse. She rescued him a few months ago. I’m happy to take care of the chickens, but I do not do horses! So D--Mart’s going to make sure he’s fed this morning.” I’m glad I caught myself; Mrs. B. doesn’t need anything else to fuss about.

“Have you had breakfast yet? We have plenty of eggs, as you can see. I’d be happy to whip something up--Trixie showed me how to make a divine crustless quiche. Or an omelet--we have some wonderful artisanal cheese. We swap for eggs with one of our neighbors.”

I prattle on as I bustle around the kitchen. I’ve had to learn to cook with eggs out of self-defense, otherwise we’d be up to our ears in them. There are always hard-boiled eggs in the fridge to snack on. I’ve learned to soft-boil and poach, I’m good at omelets and quiche and frittatas--the only thing I fail at is plain old fried eggs. Even if I don’t try to flip them, they always end up breaking.

Pretty soon, I’ve got onions and mushrooms going in a cast-iron skillet while the oven is preheating-- it’s going to be a frittata, since I haven’t been able to get any input from Mrs. B., who doesn’t say anything until I reach for the jar of house blend.

“Not that! For heaven’s sake, look at it! There are worms in it!”

The contents of the jar inspected under the kitchen light fixture are perfectly normal. “No, ma’am-- that’s lemon zest, minced onion and garlic, white peppercorns and some spices. I don’t know what else is in it, but it’s really yummy.”

“I said _’NO’_!”

Sounds like Mrs. B. Is a Queen B--and I don’t mean a sweet little honey bee!

But she’s a guest, and my nana taught me some manners, so I opt for dashes of chives and parsley. The whole thing goes into the oven and I set the timer on my phone.

If Trixie was here, she’d probably put together a batch of biscuits or muffins to take advantage of the hot oven, but I don’t claim to have her finesse at baking--the last thing I want is to attempt and fail in front of her disapproving mother.

Instead, I rummage around to see what we have. There’s half a loaf of stale bread, probably destined for bread pudding at this point, a few muffins…baked on Sunday, and today is Tuesday, so they should still be fine and best used soon. I get them ready to pop in for the last few minutes of the bake to warm them up and readjust the timer accordingly.

Mart returns, kicks off his shoes inside the door and strolls over to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. “What’s for breakfast?”

“There’s a frittata in the over,” I announce. “And we’ve still got some of those muffins left from Sunday brunch.”

“Great. You’ll love them!” he tells his mom and the bro. ”They’re like the ones the Wheeler’s cook makes….” He gets his mother talking about some of their neighbors in Sleepyside, and she loosens up enough that by the time the frittata comes out of the oven, she actually laughing as she recounts a story about someone named Mr. Lytel and a litter of kittens born at his general store. 

Mrs. B. excuses herself to the ‘powder room’, and I suggest to Bobby that he might want to wait for me out front and I’ll be ready to leave for our deliveries in a few minutes.

“Everything’s already loaded into the Silver Bullet,” I tell Mart, “so we’re ready to go.”

“There you go--put him to work.” He grins at me, and I wonder for the ten thousandth time how I got so lucky.

Bobby is out front, Queen B is out back, and I yield to temptation and kiss him. He’s gripping the lapels of my flannel shirt, giving as good as he gets, and then…Queen B starts screaming. Oops.

She’s standing in the doorway of Trixie’s room, making an awful caterwauling. Daddy-o grimaces and says, “You go. I’ll clean up the kitchen--and handle this.”

I wave good-bye to Mrs. B. without making eye contact and beat feet out the side door.

When I pull up to the front porch, Bobby trots over and slides in one the passenger side. “What was Moms yelling about just now?” he asks.

There’s really no point in keeping it a secret. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ lasted all of two hours.

“She caught me kissing your brother good-bye.”

Bobby cackles. “That would do it. Wow, and to think I wanted to skip this trip!”

…


	3. The Ride-Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the produce run, Bobby gets better acquainted with his brother's boyfriend.

“So, you guys are a couple?” I ask casually a few minutes after we leave the farm behind.

“That’s right.” Ben gives me a side-long look. “Is that going to be a problem for you, or is it just your mother?”

“Hey, I don’t care. Not my circus, not my monkeys, you know?”

Look, I’ll be the first one to admit that Sleepyside is nowhere near as cosmopolitan as New York City, but it isn’t like we don’t have any LGBT kids at my school. The idea that my brother is gay…okay, fine, whatever. I don’t care about that any more than I do the fact that Trixie is evidently shagging that guy, Jupiter. Live and let live.

The trouble is, Moms does not understand that. At all. And since she can’t control them--especially once we’re back home--she’s gong to double-down on what she can control--namely, me.

As far as me having a love life goes, I don’t. I’ve never met anyone, boy or girl, who gives me warm fuzzy feelings. I have plenty of friends, but that’s it. There’s no way to tell her that, though--she’ll think I’m trying to cover something up. It’s true, I am--but not that. 

I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in Sleepyside. I want to travel and have adventures. I’m saving every cent I can get my hands on. Next year, I’ll have my driver’s license, I’ll find a cheap truck or station wagon, and I’m off…for an epic summer vacay, if nothing else. I’m tired of being the baby of the Belden family, always stuck at home--I want to see the world!

Meanwhile, I’m seeing the California countryside. The back of the truck is filled with cartons of produce and eggs, and we drive to homes and businesses dropping off one box after another. Locally sourced produce, delivered by the people who grew it? Belden Farms is the premiere service in the area to offer that.

Ben is cool. He isn’t condescending, which I would despise. He’s friendly, but not like he’s trying to score points because I’m Mart’s brother. I don’t care about chickens, but the way he talked about those weird birds he’s got, I could tell he’s genuinely enthusiastic. And the blue eggs are wild. And now, talking about the companies who’ve embraced their organic products, he’s excited. When he talks about Belden Farms and says ‘we’, it’s pretty clear he feels like one of the family, even if his last name isn’t Belden. Although who knows, maybe one of these days it will be.

Everybody knows Ben, from the bakery that gets twelve dozen eggs to the elderly couple who are delighted to receive a few extra oranges. Most of them ask after Mart is, and Ben always introduces me as Mart’s brother, who’s visiting. (Not his _kid_ brother, which would be demeaning.)

Eventually, we wind up out in horse country, driving past a sign that advertises Willowcrest Stables, up a lane between well-kept board fences. A herd of horses sun themselves, grazing in a pasture, a woman rides a brown and white roan in figure-eights in a corral. Another horse, saddled, is ground-tied nearby.

“So you’re Trixie’s brother?” A tall man in a cowboy hat shakes my hand at Ben’s introduction. “Tell her Jeremy says ‘Hey’.”

“Yes, Mr. Coltrane.” I take a closer look at him. He isn’t sporting a big, tacky belt buckle or spurs, his western-style shirt is faded blue, nothing fancy, his jeans look well-worn. The battered brown cowboy boots show marks where the stirrups have cradled them. This guy is the real deal!

“She’s good people,” he continues. “Takes real fine care of that pony of hers. Are you as horse-crazy as she is, Bobby?”

“Nobody is as horse-crazy as Trixie is.” I roll my eyes. “I can ride, though.”

“Maybe you can come back and ride while you’re here,” he suggests. “Ask your sister to bring you over. I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s too bad I’m not twenty years younger.”

“Jeremy, you’re like the old dog chasing a car, you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you caught one!” calls the woman on the roan. Is she his wife? Girlfriend? I have no idea.

“Reckon I’m in the doghouse now,” he says, and she laughs.

“We’ll let her know, Mr. Coltrane,” Ben assures him. “We need to get back on the road now.”

“Nice meeting you!” I’d love to come back and explore the place. I feel like I know every square foot of Westchester County, so the idea of roaming new trails appeals to me.

There are only a couple boxes left in the back of the truck. “Last stop, Rocky Beach,” Ben announces, steering us onto the highway. “There’s a load for the Rosedrop Cafe--mostly asparagus, Jean-Francois gets a lot of that from us. And a box to the Joneses. That’ll give us a chance to catch up with Trixie and warn her your mom is.…” He hesitates.

“Out of her mind? Look, you don’t have to spare my feelings. I live with her, I already know how difficult she is.” 

“Let’s just say she didn’t make a good first impression,” he sighs. “I’m trying not to judge til I know her better. I’ve been hearing about your family from Daddy-o and Trixie for a year now, and--”

“Daddy-o? Since when is my geek brother a hipster?”

Ben blushes. “It’s a term of endearment,” he confides. “I’m actually older than he is, but he’s more mature, I think. Probably because he _did_ have a stable family growing up. My folks divorced when I was a kid, and I spent the next ten years bouncing back and forth to boarding schools and staying with my grandmother in Rocky Beach in the summer. I was kind of a brat in those days.”

I know kids in similar situations. Sometimes it’s pretty rough, but some of them work the ’rents guilt trip real good. “Did they ignore you, or what?”

“Custody was a big thing--I was like a trophy. Not valuable for myself, but neither one wanted the other to get me. And the older I got…for a while, they tried to buy me. Mom took me to Disneyland. Dad took me to Sundance. Mom got me a cell phone. Dad got me a computer. Mom and I went on a cruise. I got back and Dad gave me a car.”

“Holy shit, a car? Really?”

“Such language!” He feigns disapproval, but he’s grinning..

“Yeah, well, make notes, maybe you’ll learn some new words.”

Ben snorts. “I guess smart-ass runs in the family.”

The asparagus goes to a fancy restaurant, and then we drive over to Jones Salvage Yard. “That’s Trixie’s car--” Ben points out a robin’s egg blue VW Bug across the street from the front gate. 

We carry the produce over to the office, where a petite woman with silvering hair mutes the sound on the soap opera she’s watching and greets us. “You must be Bobby,” she smiles after she and Ben have exchanged pleasantries. “I’m Jupiter’s Aunt Mathilda. How are you enjoying your visit?”

“I’m really glad I came,” I say truthfully. 

“I hope you have a good time. You probably want to see Trixie, but she and Jupiter are off delivering a few things to Culver City. She had a call from Mart, though. He’s moved your mom to a B&B in Orangewood, and apparently she’s upset that you didn’t clear your ride-along with her.”

“It doesn’t seem to take much to upset Mrs. B.,” Ben comments. “When we left, she was screaming because Mart and I had the audacity to kiss good-bye.”

“Oh, dear. And Trixie told me about the scene when she got there last night, although she may have exaggerated a teeny bit. I mean, she didn’t really do a strip-tease, did she?”

I catch Ben’s eye, and we both crack up again.

“Not exactly. All she had on was a towel.” I snicker.

“’Had’ being the operative word,” Ben adds. “Mrs. B. was fussing that she didn’t have a robe on, and Trixie, well--”

“I can imagine!” Mathilda Jones giggles. She’s more amused than scandalized. “Trixie is such a wonderful young woman--she’s a hard worker, and always so cheerful. Jupiter can be a trifle grumpy sometimes, but not when she’s around.”

“You don’t suppose they’re off eloping?” Ben asks thoughtfully.

“Moms would shit a brick.”

“I believe it.”

“Meanwhile, I’m planning a little luncheon for your sister tomorrow,” says Mrs. Jones. “I guess that means I’ll need to invite your mama. It might do her good, to meet some of Trixie’s friends here so she can see that Trixie isn’t really out here living a life of debauchery and hedonism.”

I bite my tongue, because I’m pretty sure nothing is going to convince Moms of that, not after catching Trixie playing ‘don’t drop the soap’ with Jupiter. But hey, not my circus, not my monkeys.

 

…..


	4. Father Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Belden is a good husband and father. Sometimes, being both requires walking a tightrope.

The skies are smooth and service from the flight attendants is efficient. My flight arrives a little ahead of schedule, which is welcome. My luggage is among the first to come off the baggage carousel, which is downright amazing. 

And then I see Helen standing tensely at arrivals, and I have a sinking feeling that my day is about to go downhill from here.

“We have to talk! The children--it’s terrible! You have to talk to them, they won’t listen to a word I say, and--and--I’m a nervous wreck!” She’s wild-eyed; if it was anyone else, I’d think she was drinking. That's not like her.

I murmur reassurances, but it’s true. Helen has changed over the last few years. I started noticing her increasingly hysterical reactions to everyday problems when Brian went away to college. They got worse when Mart departed, and when Trixie joined him…she’s gotten even more querulous and demanding of me and Bobby. I swore to love her for better and for worse, which I still do, but I’m worried about what her behavior is doing to Bobby.

“Where are we doing? This isn’t the right way!” she protest when I set the rental car’s guidance system to a well-reviewed restaurant I found via my phone.

“All I’ve had today was an English muffin at the hotel coffee shop in Chicago and some airline snacks,” I inform her . “So we’ll have a good lunch and you can tell me why you’re so upset. Not now,” I add, because she’s taken a deep breath as if she’s about to launch into whatever it is on the spot. “Let me concentrate on driving, okay?”

When we get to the restaurant, a fairly upscale steakhouse, I order a sangria for Helen and a Virgin Mary for myself. I’d prefer it bloody, but one of us has to be able to drive, and in her state of mind, it isn’t going to be Helen.

She orders grilled chicken with seared vegetables, while I opt for surf and turf. By the time we’ve ordered, she’s down to the bottom of her glass; I make sure she gets a refill.

The story comes out in rush, with numerous asides and jumping from one transgression to another. For starters, she’s apparently discovered that Trixie has a boyfriend she’s intimate with. 

That doesn’t surprise me. Our daughter is a pretty girl--well, at nearly 21, I should say a young woman. Either way, she’s certainly old enough to have a relationship if she’s so inclined. In her calls home, Trixie’s talked about Jupiter Jones often enough that it seems inevitable that he’s the one.

“You married at nineteen,” I remind her, poking at the house salad. It’s limp lettuce and droopy tomatoes, nothing special.

“That’s entirely different! It was marry you or move when my father went to his next church and lose you--not that I wouldn’t have married you anyway, but the point is, I held on to my virtue until we were husband and wife.” 

Helen’s father was the minister at our church for several years--that’s how we met. She was shy and sweet and I’ve been crazy about her from the time she was 14 and I was 16. When I found out her dad was leaving for another church, I begged her to marry me--I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again. We’ve been married for twenty-nine years, and raised four terrific kids. While it hasn’t always been happily-ever-after, it’s still good.

An elegant woman sitting at a table behind Helen is eavesdropping and being none too subtle about it. At least this conversation isn’t taking place in Sleepyside, I congratulate myself, or it would be all over the village by the time we got the check.

“I realize that means a lot to you,” I tell my wife gently, “but I would love you no less if you’d had a dozen boyfriends before I came along. You are you, and Trixie is Trixie.”

“And there’s Mart.” She looks at me across the table, a piece of lettuce speared on her fork. “You’ve got to talk to him, Peter. We can’t--can’t let him--” She drops the fork with a clang and reaches for her sangria. “You won’t believe--”

I sigh, because I have a fairly good idea. “Would that have anything to do with that fellow Ben who’s living there?”

“You knew?! You knew our son has been living a deviant lifestyle and you didn’t tell me?”

The elegant woman is trying to mask her laughter behind a napkin. I can imagine how this sounds to a sophisticated modern woman like her. I know Helen was raised very traditionally in a strict household. That’s been an asset for a small-town banker’s wife, but her attitudes are as out of place here as walking in wearing a cotton print house-dress with curlers in her hair. Ir’s embarrassing, actually.

“I suspected. Not because he told me, but because I could read between the lines.”

“That lovely Diana Lynch--”

“Diana was part of his crowd, but I don’t think they ever spent much time together without the others. He didn’t date anyone else, either, that I recall. It’s not important, it’s his life.”

“How can you say it isn’t important?” She’s bewildered. “He’s our son!”

“Exactly. He’s our son. We love him no matter what. Who he loves, that’s his business. The same goes for Trixie.”

Just then, the server arrives with our entrees, and thankfully, he tops up Helen’s beverage without being asked. One, I’m hoping it will mellow her out, and two, I’m hoping I can pour her into bed and go talk to our kids while she’s napping. Not to chastise them, to make sure they know I don’t subscribe to their mother’s antiquated notions.

I ask her questions about the farm. She responds with a diatribe about the state of the kitchen, then goes off about some strange kind of chickens that lay blue eggs. Both topics are interrupted by harangues about what a pushy young man Ben is. 

That really isn’t what I want to know. Is the farm being properly kept up? Are they economizing on things that could be problematic later, like insurance? There’s a lot of talk these days about work-life balance: It sounds like Mart’s and Trixie’s lives are satisfactory; I’m more concerned about how well their labors are repaying them.

The bed and breakfast Mart found is is called the Bear Arms. We actually have to drive past the farm to get there, but I resist Helen’s importuning to stop in.

“No, I want a shower first,” I say as we drive into the small town of Orangewood. Judging by the Welcome sign, ‘Population: 1780’, it’s slightly bigger than Sleepyside, but not much. The Bear Arms faces the town square, an attractively landscaped little park. 

Over the front entrance of the B&B is a picture--a rebus--of a pair of shaggy arms with paws, holding a rifle. I smile at the pun. Inside, the decor is whimsical--there’s a gigantic teddy bear in one corner with a toy pop-gun, various bears in uniforms, including one in a spacesuit with a ray gun. Somebody has an interesting sense of humor.

At the check-in desk, a woman who introduces herself as Dorinda greets us, and calls for Casey to carry my bags upstairs for me. “No, ma’am--no messages,” she says to Helen’s query. “Have you all had lunch? I’d be happy to put something together for you.”

“We stopped for a bite on the way out,” I tell her. “It was a long flight.”

Casey pops into the lobby. Like Dorinda, she’s in her late thirties. There the resemblance ends. Dorinda has brown hair that curls softly around her face, and she has on a blue and white sundress. Casey’s hair is short and dyed shades of blue and green. She’s wearing a green polo shirt and jeans. 

“You rang?”

“Bags to number six, doll.”

“Your wish is my command.”

I chuckle to myself as we follow Casey up the stairs. Possibly there aren’t any other suitable lodgings close by, but I wouldn’t put it past Mart to park his mother in a lesbian-run inn on purpose.

Our room is tastefully furnished. It’s generic pseudo-Early American, including a queen-sized four-poster bed. It reminds me of the inn where we spent our honeymoon, except we were in in New England, where it was real Early American. The only hint of whimsy here is a pastoral print in the style of Currier and Ives, but with teddy bears standing in for the country-folk.

“This is nice,” I say to Helen after I’ve tipped Casey and closed the door behind her. “We can have a second honeymoon when we aren’t visiting with the kids.”

She blushes, but smiles at the idea.

“But right now,” I plan, “I’m going to take a shower, which I dearly need. Why don’t you put your feet up and rest for a little while while I’m getting myself presentable?”

She nods. “I think I would like to lie down for a little bit,” she sighs. “I hardly slept at all last night. What with everything that happened, and being in a strange bed….”

By the time I return from the adjoining bathroom, feeling refreshed and alert, she’s snoring delicately. Good. She undoubtedly needs it, and it’ll give me a chance to run over to Belden Farms and see for myself what our offspring have been up to.

….


	5. Lunch at the Seahorse Tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ben shows Bobby the sights of Rocky Beach, he encounters an old adversary and does a good deed.

Rocky Beach is quiet today. I have no problem finding parking near the boardwalk. “Behold, the Pacific!” I announce grandly.

Bobby stares. “Okay if I go down there?” he asks diffidently.

“Sure, there’s an access.” I point.

I perch on the railing, watching as he kicks off his shoes and rolls up his jeans to stroll along the water’s edge, sunlight dancing off his yellow curls. I wouldn’t mind having a younger brother like him. Or brother-in-law…Daddy-o and I haven’t talked about marriage, but I’d say yes like a shot if he asked me. Does he feel the same? I wish I knew.

It’s low tide. Bobby stoops to pick up shells or pebbles from the sand. 

When he gets back, he’s pinker than he was. “I should’ve made sure you had sunscreen,” I fret.

“I’m okay. I got some shells and stuff--” He shows me a few little shells, a rock with a hole worn through it, and a piece of sea-glass. He’s pleased with his small treasures…a good kid. Nicer than I was at that age, for sure.

“We can go get some lunch now,” I tell him, “but I wanted to bring you here because it’s a historically significant location--this is the exact spot where I first met your brother. He saved my life.”

“What, you were drowning?”

“No, I was flat broke, out looking for work, and he was standing here looking out to sea. I hit him up for lunch, and he gave me a job.” And a home. And so much more….

It’s only a few blocks, so we walk to the Seahorse Tavern. I could’ve taken him to Minton’s, which was where we’d gone that day, but I like the Seahorse better. Right now I have a yen for their crab-cake-on-focaccia sandwich.

“Are they going to let me in?” Bobby asks dubiously. “No way anybody’s going to believe I’m twenty-one.”

“We’re ordering food, not booze. Don’t worry about it.”

The Seahorse is in an old building that used to be a ship’s store. There’s an upstairs level that they open up for big parties, and downstairs, which has the bar, tables, a couple pool tables, a dartboard. It’s got maritime decor, of course--an old-fashioned diving suit with a brass helmet, a giant vinyl squid dangling from the age-darkened beams overhead, mermaids and seahorses galore.

“Cool,” Bobby breathes, staring at it all in wonder.

I get Rikki’s attention, and we’re shown to a booth against the far wall. He looks at me, then at Bobby, and raises an eyebrow. I feel playful after a morning of making deliveries and being businesslike but friendly to our clientele.

“Rikki, I’d like you to meet the Copperhead Kid, out of Sleepyside, New York. Kid, this is Rikki. I used to work here, so we go way back.” I wink at Bobby, who grins broadly.

“Jailbait!” Rikki says playfully, wagging a finger at me. “What happened to Daddy-o?”

“It just so happens the Copperhead Kid is his younger brother,” I reveal with a smirk. “He’s been out on a produce run with me.”

“I’d hate to think there was trouble in paradise,” Rikki is mock-solemn. “You two make such a cute couple.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

I’ve already decided what I want, but Bobby studies the greasy menu like there’s going to be a test. “The burgers are good,” I let him know. “I’m going to have the Crab Focaccia.”

He nods, eventually going with the grilled stuffed Portobello on garlic bread.

Once we’ve placed our orders, he resumes his perusal of the artifacts. Our booth has sheets of classic tattoo flash, pictures of old-time tattooed people and a few body mods. Other booths have themes like whales and harpoons, a life preserver and pictures of sunken ships, lighthouses, ship models--that kind of thing. I don’t claim to know all about everything, but if you ask Chris King, the owner of the Seahorse, he can go on for hours about this item or the voyages of that ship.

I tell stories about working here--nothing too shocking. The artist who made the stuffed squid got fifty dollars cash for it--and a free burger a week for a year. Or the time some fool came in with a sea-lion pup--the wildlife department was waiting for him in the parking lot when he left; the pup went to Sea World for rehabilitation and was released back to the wild. And those bundles up there? Those are nets they lower during darts matches, to prevent a repeat of the time a guy wasn’t paying attention and got a free ear piercing.

Having a fresh audience for my tales is such fun that I don’t notice that Danny Ruggiero is sitting at a nearby table until the trouble starts. Danny is about my age, and he used to rent a room from the same asshole I did before Daddy-o rescued me. Apparently he still does, because there’s the asshole himself, Duffy, leaning over and badgering him for money.

“You owe me three-fifty!” he’s braying. “Where’s my damn money? You can’t afford to pay me, but you can afford to come in here and stuff your face?” He picks the burger up from Danny’s plate, takes a huge bite out of it, then drops it on the floor. Danny sits frozen.

This is hideously familiar. Danny could be me, before Mart came along.

I slide out of the booth. “Leave him alone.”

Duffy turns. The contempt on his face intensifies. “You? You don’t have your bitch with you this time, maybe you should get lost while you still have teeth.”

Nobody but nobody calls Daddy-o a bitch but me. Occasionally. In private. With safewords. I take a step forward, and he swings at me. 

It’s not much of a punch. He tags my left bicep, nothing vital, and I’m close enough to plant a fist in his breadbox. The air goes out of him, and he doubles over, wheezing. I grab his collar. “Get the door!” I bark at Bobby, who scampers ahead of me as I fast-march Duffy toward the entrance. 

I launch him out the door where he stumbles across the front porch, flails and face-plants in the parking lot. While he’s kissing asphalt, I dust my hands off and stroll back to our table. There’s not a big crowd at this time of day, but I get a round of applause from everyone who’s witnessed the show. Duffy isn’t a popular guy; he’s caused trouble here before, I know. 

When Rikki hustles over, I tell him to take care of Danny. “Get him another burger. Hell, get him two. I’m buying.”

“That was fantastic!” Bobby says gleefully. “Man, you really _are_ a honeybadger!”

“I’m a what?”

“You know, a honeybadger. It’s what your hair made me think of the first time I saw you. But that-- you really _are_ a badass!”

I chuckle. Me, a badass? Yeah, right. But a year ago, I wouldn’t--couldn’t--have stood up to Duffy. Funny thing, eating regular meals and working hard has toughened me up without me really noticing it happened. Now I can pay forward what Mart did for me.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask Danny.

He looks miserable. “Sooner or later, I’ll have to go home,” he sighs. “He’ll be even worse, now.”

Duffy’s liable to beat the hell out of him. I can’t let that happen.

There’s really no room at the farm, unless we parked him in a spare stall, in the barn or something. “You still taking classes?” I ask to buy time to think.

“Just one this term. Finals are in couple weeks.”

Danny’s a quiet guy, studious--wants to be a marine biologist. Where can he stay that’s safe? Preferably in town so he’s close to campus…the Joneses? Maybe. Or-- “Excuse me a minute.”

I grab my cell phone and call Trixie.

She answers with, “What’s she done now?” 

“No idea. Hey, I was wondering--your friend, that old guy that lives near the Joneses--”

“Mr. Przewalski?”

“Him. Could he use a companion? A friend of mine needs to get out of a really bad situation. He’s about my age, in school, nice guy--what do you think?”

There’s a moment of quiet. “Maybe. We’ll be back at the Yard in fifteen, twenty minutes or so and I can go ask him.”

“Great! Thanks.” I ring off, pleased with the solution. “Hey, Danny, how would you like keep an eye on an elderly gentleman who lives alone? He’s kinda frail--he’s ninety-something and he’s on oxygen, but he still has all his marbles as far as I know.”

“I don’t know. Probably. I mean, anything would be better than Duffy’s, but maybe I can’t afford it.”

“It’s not a sure thing--my friend is checking with the guy, but we can probably go by after lunch and talk to him. Okay? Enjoy your burger.”

Chris King drops by our table as we’re finishing up. He says this is the last straw, he’s banning Duffy for good, and thanks me for taking care of the problem before he tore up the place. Enjoy dessert, it’s all on him. Magnanimously, he even picks up Danny’s tab.

When we hear back from Trixie, Danny follows us over to the Salvage Yard. Mr. P. lives next door to their parking lot. I’ve only seen him in passing before this; up close, he’s pale and shrunken. He seems almost transparent, as though he’s fading away and one day he’ll just disappear completely. Today, though, he’s amiable. There’s a spare bedroom, and he allows, it would be good to have some company. It’s getting harder and harder for him to do for himself….

Danny is shy, but his hesitant questions are better than if we did all the talking for him. He’s relieved when Mr.P. says he’ll have kitchen privileges--in fact, he hopes Danny can do most of the cooking, although he doesn’t have much of an appetite these days Sure, he can use the laundry room, no sense paying an atrocious price to take his clothes to a laundromat. Danny’s in school? Wonderful! A good education is so important. And he’ll be happy to exchange a place to stay for work around the house. He was on his own too, once, he understands….

They hit it off pretty well, and when Mr. P. agrees that Danny can move in any time, I’m relieved.

“If you want, I’ll go with you to get your stuff,” I offer, remembering how Daddy-o had done as much for me. “That way if Duffy tries to start shit, you’ll have backup.”

“Backup for what?” Jupiter asks. He’s known Mr. P. his whole life, and sat in on the ‘interview’. I explain about Duffy, and he nods. “Two heads are better than one. I’ll join you.”

We decide that Trixie can give Bobby a ride back to the farm, and Jupiter and I will make sure Danny isn’t hassled while he moves out. It’s funny, Jupiter and I were always butting heads when we were kids, but these days we’re fairly amicable. And here we are actually working together. Not for the first time, I remember, thinking of how we’d rebuilt Trixie’s bedroom last year. 

It’s been fourteen months since the day I first hit on Daddy-o for lunch. Afterward, he’d offered me a job and we’d gone back to Duffy’s for my stuff. I remember how scared I’d been--while today I’d socked the guy and gave him the bum’s rush like a cheesy action hero. Which I’m not! But it sure did feel good.

The familiar house is messier than ever. There’s a trashed Kia on the front lawn, which hasn’t been mowed since last summer, by the looks of it. Inside? Hold your nose!

No Duffy. Danny takes the padlock off his door--it’s that kind of place--and starts hauling things outside. Between his car and the Silver Bullet, we manage to get it all in one load. Danny pockets his padlock and leaves the door open. “Duffy’s got my deposit,” he mutters when I ask if he’ll be jammed up. “He’s coming out ahead on the deal.” The whole operation has taken less than an hour, but already the tension is leaving his face.

We help him get squared away at Mr. P.’s, and I hope it’ll be as much of a sanctuary for him as Belden Farms has been for me…although, thinking of Daddy-o, I know I’ve gotten the better deal.

…..


	6. Farmer Mart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mart and his dad tour Belden Farm.

It’s only 2 in the afternoon, but it feels more like 2 a.m. since I’m functioning on so little sleep. Last night, I kept waking up from nightmares of Moms bursting into our bedroom and having fits about me sleeping with Ben. Most of the time, the open floor plan of the dome isn’t a problem, but this is one of those times I really wish our quarters included a bedroom door to close and lock!

Poor Ben, he looked so stricken when I turned him down this morning--but with the potential humiliation if Moms had swooped in, I don’t think I could’ve risen to the occasion.

The odds were good that that’s what would’ve happened, since she came out of Trixie’s room just minutes after Ben and Bobby went out to tend the chickens. Even if she hadn’t come upstairs, I would’ve heard her banging around in the kitchen. I’d hastily finished dressing and gone down before she reorganized it. Wouldn’t that have set Trixie off?

Sis and I have been living here for a year and a half, and her newly discovered domestic tendencies still surprise me when I think of how wild Trixie was as a kid. I mean, she abhorred cooking and doing housework when we were growing up--she preferred rambling in the woods, climbing trees, swimming in the lake or, after the Wheelers moved in next door, horseback riding. Now, even though she finally has her own horse, she still does her fair share of farm work--in addition to her job at the Salvage Yard--and she’s a surprisingly good cook. We all work on keeping the house habitable, although Ben seems to do most of it.

As much as we’ve teased each other, we make a good team. She spent six months brewing cauldrons of marmalade for Jean Francois, which kept us afloat. The recipe he used it for is seasonal, but she got us in the door, and now his restaurant pays premium prices for our asparagus and whatever other produce we have substantial quantities of.

Between being short on sleep, contending with Moms first thing in the morning…oh god, the scene she’d made when she caught me kissing Ben! Originally, I was going to try to keep that relationship off her radar, but I felt like a heel about it. I love Ben. Yes, I love my mother, too--but if I wanted to stay under her thumb for the rest of my life, I would’ve stayed in Sleepyside. I’m a grown man in my own house, why the hell should I have to sneak around to placate my mother?

I need lunch. The frittata Ben made wore off a while ago. After explaining to Moms that I’m gay and not likely to ‘change my mind’, I’d escorted her to the bed and breakfast in town. It was that or one of the motels by the highway, and the Bear Arms is much classier. Casey and Dorinda, the owners, are friends of ours--Ben met them at one of the marketing workshops he went to at the Ag Center. 

I’m slathering mayo on bread and chuckle, thinking of the irony there. Casey and Dorinda are a couple, and I wonder if Moms will notice. I slice a juicy beefsteak tomato, imagining my mother running down the road ala Joan Cusack in _In & Out_, screaming, _”Is everybody gay?!”_

When I got back from doing that, I spent hours in the greenhouse and a couple more hours harvesting produce for the next outgoing batch. As soon as I’m done with lunch, I need to sit down and crunch some numbers. According to Moms, Dad’s going to be here this afternoon, and I know he’s going to want to discuss our cash flow and how much we owe for start-up costs on the farm.

That’s good; I want to talk to him, too. What does it say when I’m less worried about talking finances than I am about what he’s going to have to say about my life? Moms is probably giving him a hysterical earful concerning my sins right about now. I remember overhearing him saying that one of his coworkers at the banks wasn’t going to get promoted because he was gay, because banking is such a conservative profession. So a banker with a gay son--well, that’s just another one of the reasons I moved far, far away from Sleepyside.

A good tomato sandwich hits the spot. I’m glad I thought to pick up a loaf of bread while I was showing Moms to their new digs. Now to get busy with the spreadsheet for Dad and make sure everything adds up….

I bring my laptop downstairs to quell the temptation inherent of working in our bedroom. Temptation being that big, beautiful queen-sized bed beckoning me to stretch out and snore til I’m caught up. Nope, just keep going….

The sound of the doorbell interrupts my concentration about an hour later. I save everything, take a deep breath, and go welcome my dad.

He pulls me into a hug before I’ve done more than say, “Hi, Dad”. He’s a lot fresher than I am, I realize ruefully. Between mucking out Cecil’s stall to spending hours in manual labor, I’m kind of a mess.

We inspect each other for a moment. I haven’t seen him in about twenty months, and there’s noticeably more grey in his dark hair and flecking his mustache. 

“You’re looking good,” he tells me. “Farming seems to agree with you.”

“Thanks.” I glance around. “Moms?”

“Napping. I thought I’d come by for the grand tour, if that’s all right.”

Well, at least he isn’t bemoaning my wicked lifestyle. I give him a look around downstairs, then take him out to see the farm itself.I figure Trixie is going to want to introduce him to Cecil personally, so I bypass the barn and head for the chicken coop. I don’t wax quite as eloquently about poultry as Ben does, but I show him the Araucanas and their blue eggs--and of course, Crabapple Farm has had Reds forever, so he knows what they are.

I explain Ben’s marketing gimmick of a blue egg in every dozen, and how tirelessly he’s been working to propagate the rare breed. I get a little carried away singing Ben’s praises, but It’s all true: he does every bit as much as Trixie and I do--I’m not just rhapsodizing because we’re shacked up. 

The greenhouse, now--that’s _my_ pride and joy. I’ve expanded it from the dilapidated structure it ws when I got here, and I’ve been starting various heirloom vegetables I got from a seed bank and transplanting them outdoors when they’re ready. It’s extra work, but we’ve had good yields, so I’m going to keep at it. 

We tour the vegetable patch--he marvels at the sight of so much produce ripening in late April. “We just had snow the week before last,” he comments. “This is paradise!”

I show him around the groves--somehow, citrus is less the cash crop I’d thought it would be, except for what we include in the boxes and Trixie’s marmalade. Still, we’d like to expand that in the future, so I’m keeping it picked and pruned as best I can. I might clear a couple more acres for produce, depending on how many new customers we get and whether the restaurants we’ve been selling to spread the word.

After about an hour of walking and talking, we end up back at the dome, where I offer him iced tea.

“The place looks good,” he remarks. “I really didn’t know what to expect--I was worried that would be rundown, or that you’d taken on too much--but I can see you’ve really invested a lot of work in it.”

“I’m glad you mentioned investing, Dad--”

“Wait a minute! Before we start talking about additional capitol, I need to know--how close are you to putting yourself in the black? At what point can your mother and I expect to start being repaid?”

I grin and walk over to the laptop. I pull out the slip of paper tucked under it and hand it to him. “I think that should do it,” I say, and pick up the spreadsheet I’ve printed out. “Here’s a breakdown of what you sent every month, including my tuition and Trixie’s plane fare--plus five percent, which I hope is a satisfactory rate of interest.”

Dad stares at the numbers on the check for a long time. Finally, he asks, “Is this for real?”

“Never joke about money with a banker! Yeah, Dad--it’s legit.”

“But how? You can’t possibly afford to pay this in full.”

“Dad, maybe you ought to sit down….” He settles into one of the kitchen chairs, looking wary. “Yes, you can absolutely take that to the bank in the morning, if you’re so inclined, and get it rerouted to your bank in Sleepyside, no problem. It’s not going to wipe us out.”

“How?” he repeats. “The second California gold rush is starting with a discovery In your pond?”

“There’s gold on them there trees,” I quip. “Trixie’s marmalade saved the day. She got us an ‘in’ at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the area, and that made us enough to replace my old beater, expand the greenhouse, bank some and pay you back. We’re at the point where the produce service is putting us modestly ahead, so I think we’re okay to cut the apron strings.”

It’s all true, but it’s still a little scary. At least he can’t use money as a lever to try to make me get rid of Ben. I look him in the eye as I add, “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’m an adult, and it’s time I stood on my own two feet.”

He’s regarding me thoughtfully, and just as he’s about to say something, the back door opens. Enter Trixie and Bobby.

True to form, as soon as the hugging and kissing is over, Trixie insists on showing off Cecil to Dad and Bobby. While they’re doing that, I suggest, I’ll shower and get dressed and we can go into town for dinner. Ben and I were going to take Trixie out for a birthday dinner--I can call and expand the reservation. We can pick Moms up on the way. All the while, I’m thinking: _It’s neutral ground. If she gets crazy, we can leave._

I’m standing at the sink with a towel around my hips when the upstairs bathroom door opens. I start, but thankfully, it’s Ben.

“Jumpy much?”

I sigh. “Sorry. It’s like being a teenager again, with her barging in at will.” 

“Poor boy….” He leans forward, kissing me, which feels good. His hands slide down to cradle my ass. He’s pressing against me, and oh god, I wish we could go into the bedroom and tear one off. 

When he’s this aggressive, it means he’s feeling particularly good about himself. “Okay, what’s up?” I ask. “You’re feistier than usual.”

He starts shedding his clothes. “Your brother and I have given each other nicknames,” he tells me nonchalantly. “He’s the Copperhead Kid, and I’m--get this!--Honeybadger.”

“What are you talking about? And why are you getting undressed? I don’t--we can’t--!”

“Do you remember Duffy?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ben tsk-tsks. “Not enough blood flow to your brain, I’m afraid,” he croons. “Duffy, my former landlord, turned up at the Seahorse while your bro and I were having lunch. He was giving somebody else grief, and I threw him out on his ass. He’s been banned for life! The Kid thinks I’m a badass and is calling me ‘Honeybadger’ because of my hair. Can you believe it?”

That explains the look of glee on his face--it’s well-earned; I remember how shy he was when we originally met. I’ve definitely noticed that he’s a lot more jacked than he was when he got here! 

“He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

“Nah. He was helpful. Good company. Got an invitation from Coltrane to go riding while he’s here if Trixie’s up for it.”

“So after this, if I call you ‘honey’--”

“I’ll say, ‘That’s Mr. Honeybadger to you’. As to why I’m undressed, it’s customary to disrobe before taking a shower, which I’m about to do because we’re going out to dinner this evening.” He tidily drops his garments into the laundry bin. “Trixie was thrilled to hear we’re going to Angelina’s.”

It was a logical choice. Angelina’s is an Italian place that buys its vegetables from us, and we all love their food, plus I can’t imagine Moms making a scene in public. Then something occurs to me.

“Wait--did you meet my dad?”

“Yeah…” Ben’s adjusting the temp of the water in the shower”They were in the barn when I came in in the Bullet. Trixie introduced us.”

“Did he say anything?”

“About what? Ah, that feels good….” Through the glass door, he tilts his head back to face the spray.

“About anything.”

“That’s a little broad, don’t you think? He shook my hand, said hello, said you showed him the chickens and he loves the Araucanas and we’re all going to dinner. Why?” He’s getting busy with a soapy shower puff, unconcerned.

Nothing about leading his son into a life of sin? Great. Nothing about the money? Well, he probably wants to look over the spreadsheet first. “As long as he didn’t give you a hard time.”

“Nope. He seems like a nice guy.”

I’ve heard enough about Ben’s father to know coming out can provoke so-called nice guys into being real butt-holes, but luckily, mine seems to be taking it in stride. Now if only I could say as much about my mother….

…


	7. A Table for Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joys of food and family as the Beldens dine together. The hot topics are Trixie's hair, a singing cowgirl and an incident from Mart's childhood.

There are six of us around the table. In a lot of ways, it’s like every dinner I grew up with…except the sixth person is Ben, not Brian. (Also, the table is round, not rectangular, and it’s in an Italian restaurant instead of the dining room at Crabapple Farm. Details, details….)

I have Trixie on one side of me and Ben on the other. Moms is between Trixie and Mart, Dad is between Mart and Ben. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Ben has been seated as far from Moms as possible, and that’s probably not by accident. She pitched that fit this morning about Mart and Ben kissing, and the looks she’s been shooting in his direction aren’t exactly friendly. 

Dad’s being cool about it--after we’ve studied the menu and ordered, he engages him and Mart in conversation about the farm…it’s a lot of dull stuff, like depreciation and overhead and I don’t know what all. Also like those dinners when I was growing up, when I was the youngest one at the table and most of the conversations were over my head.

On the other side of me, Moms suggests to Trixie that tomorrow she can give Trixie a haircut, which she obviously needs. 

I hadn’t really noticed, but now that it’s been called to my attention, Trixie’s hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it. It used to always be bobbed shorter than chin-length and now it’s touching her shoulders. Instead of the flyaway curls that she sported since forever, I’m pretty sure she has some kind of product in it to make it manageable. It looks cute.

For that matter, Trixie’s wearing a blue and white dress that makes her look grown-up for real. I know she’s turning 21, but she’s always just been my big sister--a bigger kid than me, but still a kid herself. 

“No, thanks, Moms. I don’t need a haircut.”

“Of course you do, sweetie. Look at how long your hair has gotten. It’ll be so much easier to take care of if it’s short.”

“I can take care of it just fine.” Her hand is clenched around the napkin in her lap.

“And after the haircut, maybe we can go shopping and get you a pretty outfit and some new shoes.”

“What part of no don’t you understand?” Trixie says sharply. “I don’t _want_ a haircut!”

“Is there a problem, ladies?” Dad wants to know.

“I have a perfectly lovely stylist who’s showed me the best way to make my hair work for me, and that doesn’t include getting it hacked at with a pair of kitchen shears,” Trixie says, ignoring Dad’s attempt at intervention. “I don’t need a haircut, and I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

“Of course, for undressing, there’s always Jupiter,” Mart quips.

Even Dad is amused by that one, but Moms shudders. “So where is your ‘boyfriend’ this evening?” she asks with disdain. The quotes around the word hover in the air.

“He’s listing auctions on the Salvage Yard’s eBay page. That’s the best way to turnover a lot of their small collectibles--if they were just laying around the yard they could get damaged or stolen.” Hmm… I got to look around the place earlier, and it’s pretty cool. Now I want to get on line and check out those auctions--but I know better than to pull out my phone during dinner.

Our server brings out a huge bowl of tossed salad, with plates for everyone, and for a few minutes, relative peace ensues. Dad comments that this is an enormous improvement on the salad he had at lunch, and will you look that these tomatoes? They’re delicious. Mart, Ben and Trixie all say, “Thank you!” in unison.

“Angelina’s gets their tomatoes from us,” Ben tells him.

“And their lettuce, carrots, celery and radishes,” Mart adds. “They’re very good customers.”

“Lemons, too,” Trixie reminds them. “They do the most amazing lemon-basil tart, it’s like a cheesecake, but not exactly. They won’t give me the recipe, though.”

I decide to get a word in edgewise. “Hey, Trixie, I met a guy named Jeremy Coltrane while we were doing deliveries, he said you should bring me out before I go home and we can go riding.”

“Who’s this?” Moms inquires, instantly suspicious.

“He’s the man who bred Cecil--he knew his first owner--and he’s really nice. He’s got a ranch where he raises horses, and I’d love to see more of it. How about the day after tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Moms frets. 

“Why not?” Trixie’s smile looks stapled on. “That way, you and Dad will have a day to yourselves to do touristy things, like checking out the Walk of Fame or the Chinese Theater or the Hollywood sign. It’ll be great. Right, Dad?”

Dad’s been paying attention--he pipes in cheerfully with, “Yes, and I’m interested in visiting the Petersen Auto Museum--I watched a documentary about it last winter, and it looks fascinating.”

“There you go!” Trixie says with a genuine grin. She winks at me, and I can hardly wait til the day after tomorrow.

“Speaking of horses,” Moms comments, after our entrees have been set down, “why do you have a saddle in your bedroom, Trixie? Wouldn’t the barn be a more suitable place for it?”

“Why do I have a saddle in my bedroom?” she repeats slowly. “You mean the saddle that’s in the trunk at the end of my bed? The _closed_ trunk that had a pile of books on it? The real question is, what were you doing in my trunk in the first place?” 

“Sweetheart,” Dad starts. I’m not sure which of them he’s addressing.

“That’s a vintage saddle, it used to belong to an old movie cowgirl named Rosa Velasquez. It’s trimmed with real silver, and new ones go for thousands of dollars, so no, I’m not going to leave it laying around the barn.”

“I remember Rosa Velasquez,” Dad interjects, leaning forward to make eye contact. “Your grandfather used to love her movies. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen ‘Song of the Prairie’. How in the world did you end up with her saddle?”

“Uncle Titus picked it up at an auction last year and gave it to me as a Christmas bonus.”

“You don’t have an Uncle Titus,” Moms frowns.

“Titus Jones, my boss.” Trixie explains through her teeth. “He and Aunt Mathilda are really wonderful. And that saddle is amazing--wait til you see it, Dad. We were in the Rocky Beach Christmas Parade last year, and we looked fantastic!”

Ben’s pulled out his phone. “I’ve got pictures!” he says excitedly, thumbing through his photos. “See! Very classy!”

I get a look at the image of the grey horse decked out in a very fancy black and red saddle twinkling with silver trim and my sister in full cowgirl regalia, and it’s pretty impressive.

Dad studies the picture for a moment before passing the phone back to Ben, who pockets it. “My god, I _remember_ that saddle. She did a lot of riding--and singing--in ‘The Desert Flower’, and “Rose of the Rio Plata’. My favorite was ‘Canyon of Destiny’--that one had less singing and more action.”

“Wow.” Trixie blinks. “I wish I remembered Grandpa Belden--I think I would’ve liked him.”

“You were barely four when he died,” Moms recalls. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have gotten to know him better.”

“He adored you,” Dad tells her. “You used to sit on his lap and beg for peppermints--he spoiled you more than he ever did the boys.”

“The boys were so active, he just couldn’t keep up with them.” Moms nibbles her Chicken Parmesan. “But you used to watch TV with him…I never had any trouble getting you to take a nap--you’d go and sit down with Pop-pop, have a couple mints and watch some old western and in twenty minutes, you’d be in Dreamland.”

“Mr. Coltrane asked me if I was as horse-crazy as you are,” I offer. “I said nobody is as horse-crazy as Trixie--maybe that’s where you got it from.”

“Pop-pop was also the one who suggested switching me that time,” Mart comments ruefully. “He was a tough old bird.”

“He believed in discipline,” Dad agrees. “And to be fair, you thought it was a great idea.”

“Because I didn’t know what he meant!” my brother protests.

“What are we talking about?” I want to know.

Mart explains. “When I was a kid, we went to the White Plains Fourth of July celebration. There was a parade, and there were people riding in convertibles waving at the crowd. Well, I thought that was just great. I wanted us to get a convertible so people would wave at me--”

“When was this?” Ben asks.

“I was four and a couple months. Anyway, we had these antique brass candlesticks--I thought they were gold, and I figured I’d sell them for enough money to get us a _good_ car. So I grabbed a pillowcase from the linen closet and put the candlesticks in it and hiked all the way to Mr. Lytel’s store. It’s only about a mile down the road, but that’s a long, long way for a four year old. It felt like I was going to the ends of the Earth, but I finally got there.

“I took out the candlesticks and asked Mr. Lytel for a million dollars so I could get a parade car.” Mart laughs. “He said he’d have to make sure they were genuine, and while he was getting his magnifying glass, why didn’t I enjoy this red licorice rope on the house?”

“Of course, by that time, we’d missed him, and we were frantic,” Moms glares at my brother as if the transgression happened only days ago.

“And then the phone rang, and Mr. Lytel reported that our boy was there, and he wanted to transact some high finance--that was how he put it. He seemed to think that your aptitude for wheeling and dealing meant you’d turn out a banker like me.”

I’ve never heard this story. Ben seems fascinated. Mart’s stabbing his tortellini and even his ears are scarlet with embarrassment.

“When we brought him home, my dad said, ‘He ought to be switched!’--because of course, he didn’t condone stealing or letting children escape taking responsibility when they did wrong. I would’ve just given him a talking-to and assigned some extra chores or something like that, but Mart chimed in with, ‘Yes! I want to be switched!’.”

“Because I thought it meant traded, like you’d give me to a family that had a fancy car and I wouldn’t have to share a room!” Can Mart’s face get any redder?

“At that point, I invited him to walk down to the brook with me--”

“And by then, the last thing I wanted to do was walk!” groans Mart.

“I had him pick a willow branch, and I switched him with it. Three good swats on the seat of his pants, and that was the one and only time I ever laid a hand on any of you kids.”

“Naughty, naughty,” Ben chides.

Mart isn’t looking at anything except his plate. “And all I got for my pains was a lousy rope of licorice.”

“But now you have the Silver Bullet,” Ben reminds him with a smile, “and lots of people are happy to see us coming.”

The guys start discussing farming again, while Trixie and Moms are wrangling about the fact that Trixie has to work tomorrow. I occupy myself with my baked ziti and quietly daydream about going riding at Willowcrest.

We haven’t ordered dessert, but our server brings out one of the lemon-basil tarts Trixie was talking about earlier. He’s followed by what looks like the whole staff, who sings ‘Happy Birthday’ to Trixie, never mind that technically, her birthday is tomorrow.

Trixie divides the whole thing six ways--we each get a generous wedge--and she wasn’t kidding. It really is nommy--tart and sweet and creamy with a nutty crust and undertones of basil. I could eat it all day long, and judging by how quickly the others dispatch theirs, I’m not the only one. 

“Are you going to finish that, Helen?” Dad asks hopefully. She’s the only one who hasn’t polished her plate clean.

“I don’t have room for it after that lovely chicken, but it’s quite nice.” She slides her remaining portion over to him and smiles at Trixie. “I’m not surprised you want the recipe.” 

Dad digs into the second helping with zest. “Should we tell him?” Trixie asks Mart as Dad scrapes up the last of the sweet treat.

“Tell me what?” Dad pats his lips with a napkin, smiling.

“I don’t know the exact recipe, but I know it’s vegan. That creamy texture? Avocados.”

Our dad’s loathing of avocados is a long-standing joke in the Belden family. Me, I love a good a guac, but Dad, not so much.

“Seriously?” He stares at the plate like he expects to see an avocado taunting him. “It was very good.”

“Yup. Avocados instead of cream cheese.” Trixie nods.

“Right,” Mart agrees. “The joke’s on you, Dad. Those ingredients were… _switched._ ”

…


	8. Girls Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Mathilda makes the acquaintance of Trixie's mom. She and Helen don't exactly hit it off....

Helen Belden really isn’t what I expected, based on her offspring. Trixie and Mart share a strong sense of humor, and I’m beginning to wonder if their mother has one at all. When I picked her up at the bed and breakfast they’re staying at, she wasted no time telling me that she doesn’t approve of Trixie’s involvement with my ‘son’.

“I don’t have a son,” I explain to her as we walk out to the sedan. “Jupiter is my husband’s nephew.”

“Oh? So why isn’t his mother here? She doesn’t have the nerve to look me in the eye after what he’s done?” She looks over the roof of the car at me, indignant.

I count to ten by fives. “Would that she could, Helen, but she and her husband were killed in a car wreck when Jupiter was just a child.”

She turns pink. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize--”

“His uncle and I have raised him, and I’m proud of how he turned out. He’s mature, responsible, trustworthy and thoughtful.” I could go on, but she doesn’t let me.

“He seduced my daughter.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say as calmly as I can. “I wasn’t there. But I’m glad he and Trixie got together. Jupiter’s always been so busy working at the salvage yard he’s never taken an interest in dating, but since Trixie came along, he’s been very happy.” She takes a deep breath, but I cut her off with, “Titus and I think the world of Trixie. We hope to welcome her to the family some day.”

I open my door and slide behind the wheel. After a moment, she climbs in. “She’s much too young to get married.”

“I was married at nineteen, and Titus and I have been married for forty years. We’re still very happy together. And I understand that you and Peter have almost thirty years, yourselves. That’s rare enough these days--it means our young people have strong role models.”

“I was a virgin when I got married,” Helen says almost defiantly as we pull out onto the road.

“I wasn’t,” I shrug, “but Titus is the only man I’ve ever been with.”

This strikes me as an oddly personal conversation to be having with someone I met five minutes ago, and perhaps she thinks so too, because we ride in silence for several miles. It gives my ruffled feathers a chance to settle.

“My father was a minister,” she says at last. “I’m sure your nephew is a fine young man, but I was raised to believe that a girl was supposed to stay chaste, and I thought I’d raised Trixie the same way.”

It’s a shame that the woman is so hung up on chastity that she’s overlooking Trixie’s many fine qualities, such as a good attitude, an admirable work ethic and a wonderful imagination. 

“She’s very level-headed,” I offer. “I’ve seen her cope with several first aid emergencies without panicking, she’s very helpful with customers and when we pay her, we know we’ve gotten our money’s worth. She doesn’t goldbrick--she stays busy when she’s on the clock. I think, in the long run, that’s more important than whether or not she’s had sex and when.”

Helen looks startled. “That’s good to hear. I’ve been worried--she used to do anything to try and get out of doing her chores. I’ve been afraid that their house would be in horrible shape, but although it’s a bit run-down, it’s tidy enough.”

I chuckle. “I think Trixie is a better house-keeper than I am,” I admit. “I grew up as the only girl in the family--and I had seven brothers. And in those days, housework was women’s work!”

“Oh dear! I had two sisters--I can’t even imagine. Whereabouts did you grow up?”

Good, she isn’t going to be too tedious about the children…I sort of understand where she’s coming from; my mother had always taken it for granted that I’d marry a farmer’s son and follow in her footsteps as a wife and mother. 

Meanwhile, I tell her about growing up on a Wisconsin dairy farm, and leaving at a tender age to pursue my dreams. Instead of becoming a Hollywood set designer, I’d ended up meeting and marrying Titus Jones and running the salvage yard with him. I regret nothing.

We had no children of our own, which I do regret; we’d joyfully taken in Jupiter after his parents died. It looks like the business started by his grandfather will carry on under his management when we’re gone. Not because we ever demanded it of him--he’s genuinely interested in reusing and preserving discarded things because it’s environmentally friendly. 

“He was absolutely wonderful when I had my stroke--” Helen gasps. “I was in a little fender-bender a few days before that, the doctors think that’s what triggered it. Titus was by my side every minute for weeks. Meanwhile, Jupiter took over running the salvage yard in our absence, and of course, I was in rehab for several months, so Titus needed all the help he could get. He turned down a college scholarship to help us, and never said another word about it.”

“That’s remarkable,” she says, and I smile inwardly. She’s not unreasonable--but hearing Jupiter’s virtues from someone closer to her age carries more weight than hearing it from her daughter. On some level, Trixie is always going to be her child, ‘child’ being the operative word.

“Titus broke his hip a couple years ago, and it was my turn to hover at his bedside. That was when Jupiter hired Mart to fill in, and when he went off to his farm, Trixie joined us. She really is a delight, Helen. I hope you’re proud of her.”

She’s quiet. I sneak a glance at her and she looks terribly sad. 

“I just feel s useless!” she bursts out. “I know they’re technically adults--except for Bobby, thank God I still have Bobby--but I worry about them. I want to take care of them forever and keep them safe and have them close by. And Brian is off at medical school in New Jersey, Mart and Trixie are out here--it’s just the three of us at the farm…” She fumbles in her purse for a tissue and dabs at her eyes.

Ah, the legendary ‘empty nest syndrome’…I’ve been lucky enough to escape that, but I think I have a little more perspective than she does. If I’ve calculated rightly, she’s about ten years younger than I-- and thinking about the last ten years, well, they’ve been eventful.

“I know, but none of us is going to be here forever. As dreadful as our medical catastrophes have been, Titus and I have seen how Jupiter can handle what life throws at him--and he’s done an outstanding job of it. Maybe you could try thinking about it that way. Mart and Trixie--I realize you probably didn’t expect the direction their lives have gone in, but they’re both steady, reliable workers and good people. Of course, I don’t know Brian, but being a doctor is an incredibly noble profession. Can you appreciate that, even if you don’t approve of everything they do?”

By now, we’re coming to Rocky Beach. I take our exit and steer us toward downtown. I figure I’ll let the thoughts I’ve tried to plant take root, and change the subject.

“We’re going to Wardrobe of Wonder first,” I tell her. “My sister-in-law Maggie runs it. She’s Jupiter’s aunt on his mother’s side--lovely woman, you’ll like her.”

Maggie is the baby of her family--she was a teenager when Jupiter was born, and she and her parents were in no position to take him in. She relocated from Oregon to California after her mother passed-- her dad remarried and lives in an Airstream in Arizona. She runs Wardrobe of Wonder, a really wonderful consignment/used clothing store. I do most of my shopping there.

When I introduce them, Maggie’s face lights up. “Trixie’s mother? She’s so adorable! I love finding clothes for her, it’s like dressing a great big doll. Oh, Mathilda, what do you think of this?”

She pulls a dress from the rack behind the counter and holds it up. It’s a tea-length peacock-printed chiffon over a teal slip dress--absolutely gorgeous. Maggie gets a lot of cast-offs from SoCal socialites, the kind of clothes that cost three or four figures new--this is like new and fabulous.

“Ooh, very nice!” I approve.

“I thought as a birthday gift?”

“Definitely.”

“You mean for Trixie?” Helen stares at it. “A _used_ dress? And she’d never wear something like that--she’s such a tomboy!”

Maggie looks at me, and I can see she’s struggling not to give Helen an earful. If that used couture dress originally cost ten times what a simple retail frock would cost, and it’s only been worn once, really, why ever not? 

“I’m sure she’ll love it,” I assure Maggie. “Helen, that dress probably cost more new than your first car. Look at it, it’s in perfect condition. A lot of people with more money than sense make impulse buys, then they just sit there. It’s entirely possible that it hung in someone’s closet for a year without being worn and they decided to pass it on. And those colors will suit Trixie perfectly.”

“Well…she _did_ wear a dress to dinner last night,” Helen admits. “I always used to have to fuss at her to get her to wear anything besides jeans, so if you think she’ll actually wear it…it _is_ a pretty dress. 

“I found this for you,” Maggie says, pulling another dress, which is more my style--a gloriously flowing batik print, indigo and white. She knows me so well!

I try it on, and it fits divinely. It’s just the thing for a nice lunch at the Rosedrop Cafe. I happily have Maggie bag up the old faithful skirt and top I’d had on. “What about you, Helen? Something new for a festive lunch with Trixie?”

“What’s wrong with what I have on?”

_Tread lightly_ , I think. She’s wearing a tailored pants suit, beige--which doesn’t flatter her, with a chintz floral blouse, mostly mauve. It all makes her look ten years older--but it would be impolite to say that. “Nothing at all, but wouldn’t you like something to remind your of your trip? The right dress could see you through spring and summer, and it would be much more practical than knickknacks or postcards.”

After a little persuasion, Helen agrees that it would be pleasant to add something new to her closet. We spend a half-hour browsing the racks, and she finds a lovely dress printed all-over with roses. That shade of pink compliments her skin tone much better than the beige did.

“I have roses at home,” she says, admiring her reflection. “This is like wearing my garden!”

“You’ll love the Rosedrop, then. You’ll see!” I tell her, smiling. She elects to wear her new acquisition, so Maggie bags the beige horror. “Next, we’re meeting Trixie at Bekah’s. See you later, Mags!”

“Who’s Bekah?” Helen wants to know as we leave Wardrobe of Wonder with our bags.

“My stylist. I feel the need for a little pampering. Maybe I’ll get her to put my hair up--she does the most incredible, intricate braids!--or some polish; I’d love a manicure, if there’s time. I think it’s important to talk time for oneself now and then--you never know when you’ll have another chance. I learned that in the hospital after my stroke, when all I wanted to do was sit on our porch with Titus and a cup of coffee.”

“Trixie’s going to be there? Honestly, Mathilda, she’s so stubborn these days, she just won’t listen to me. I’ve been trying to tell her that her hair will be so much easier to manage if she keeps it cut short the way she used to. Maybe you can help convince her.”

Oh no, I’m not getting roped into this! Trixie’s been growing her hair out for as long as I’ve known her. She and Bekah have devised a style that’s both pretty and practical. If it works for her, why in the world should she change it--unless she wants to? I just hope Helen doesn’t start in with this in front of Bekah--who’s said more than once that Trixie’s hair is perfect the way it is.

“I think you’ll have better luck if you let her come to that conclusion on her own,” I say gently. “And it’s her hair, after all.”

We reach Crowning Glory--it isn’t the biggest salon in town, but Bekah’s clientele is fiercely loyal to her. I met her when she did the hairdos for the Rocky Beach Playhouse’s production of _Guys and Dolls_ a few years ago. (I designed the sets.) We became good friends.

It’s always nice when your friends get along--when I took Trixie there for the first time, Trixie seemed a little doubtful. She’d been brainwashed into thinking that ultra-short hair suited her--but Bekah showed her what to use to tame her curls and she was surprised to find out that longer hair wasn’t the nuisance she’d been led to expect. I’ve watched her blossom with confidence about her looks. Really, she’s a pretty girl, but between haircuts with kitchen shears and being told what a tomboy she was, she didn’t think so. Between us, I think Jupiter may have helped convince her.

The salon smells pleasantly of herbal shampoo. Trixie is leaning back in the chair, her hair obviously freshly washed, while Bekah blots it dry with a towel. She looks blissed out. I don’t doubt it; Bekah gives the most marvelous scalp massages during shampoos.

“Good morning, Mathilda!” Bekah greets me, and Trixie, eyes closed, chimes in with, “Hi, Aunt Mathilda!”

“Happy birthday, Trixie,” Helen says, and Trixie sits upright.

“Hi, Moms.”

Waste of a perfectly good scalp massage. I grimace. All it took for Trixie to tense up again were those few words. Usually she’s bubbly, but right now it’s clearly an effort.

“We just came from Maggie’s,” I announce to defuse the moment. “She sent you a gift.”

“Oh, how sweet of her!”

“She’ll be coming to lunch later, so you can tell her what you think of it then.”

“Let’s see it now,” Bekah commands. “If you’re going to wear it to lunch, I’ll want to style your hair accordingly.”

Trixie admires the dress, then goes into the back room to try it on. I take the opportunity to ask if Bekah will have time to put my hair up before we go to lunch. 

“I want to enjoy it while I can, since I’ll probably be cutting it soon. I’ve been growing it out to donate,” I explain to Helen. “To an organization that makes wigs for cancer survivors. They don’t charge for them, either. Some of those places do, but I researched it--this way the only one profiting from my hair is the person who actually gets the wig.”

“I can manage something. You said the reservation is for 1, so we have almost two hours.”

Then Trixie emerges in the peacock dress--and when I say ‘emerges’, I mean she makes an entrance. She _knows_ how fabulous she looks. The dress, while gorgeous, didn’t look as good on the hanger as it does on her, is my first thought. Maggie has done it again. She really is a genius when it comes to matching clothes to customers.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Bekah croons. “I am inspired!”

“You look lovely,” I sigh. “Just wait til Jupiter gets a look at you! Don’t you think she looks wonderful, Helen?”

Helen gives a shaky laugh. She steps over to Trixie and kisses her cheek. “You’re wearing dresses two days in a row? Who are you, and what have you done with Trixie?”

Trixie laughs and hugs her. Helen hugs her back, and when Trixie returns to the chair, her mother looks more relaxed than I’ve seen her so far. Maybe she’s been thinking about what I said earlier-- that her daughter’s character is based on a lot more than who she sleeps with.

The mood is light while Bekah skillfully weaves Trixie’s locks into a sort of wreath, little tendrils artfully escaping. She’s such an artist! Even Helen seems impressed by the transformation.

Bekah finishes as Helen excuses herself to the powder room. “Hmm, do you want to take it further?” she asks the birthday girl, who’s grinning at her reflection.

“I’m up for anything!” Trixie declares. “It’s just for today, right?”

As I watch, the stylist pulls out a vat of hair gel and a foam brush. She begins dabbing gel around the perimeter of the wreath. Then she pulls out…a salt shaker? Yes, but it’s not filled with salt. It contains fine gold glitter, and with a towel to project Trixie’s face, she sprinkles the gold dust, which clings to the gel. She adds touches of chunkier glitter over that, giving it the effect of golden nuggets.

Trixie looks as if she’s wearing a golden crown. She’s breathtaking.

“Now then, let me do your makeup….”

“I’ve got my Ruby Woo red in my bag--”Trixie reaches for her purse.

“No, no--Ruby Woo would clash with this dress. It needs something a little more subtle….” Bekah turns to a selection of the cosmetics she offers. “You’re wearing jewel tones; that calls for some Cinnamon Glaze.” It’s a coppery red, and once it’s applied Bekah adds touches of eyeliner and mascara. Nothing extravagant, just enough that Trixie’s sandy lashes and brows aren’t invisible.

Helen stops in her tracks when she returns. She stares at Trixie in consternation--obviously trying not to blurt out anything negative. Possibly she’s never seen Trixie with full make-up before, although Bekah hasn’t gone wild, merely played up her natural beauty.

“I definitely feel older,” Trixie declares, surveying herself. “Thanks, Bekah!”

“You look like a young Greek goddess,” I say to her. 

To my surprise, Helen’s reaction is to pull out her phone and take Trixie’s picture. “I want to remember how beautiful you look right this minute.” She sniffles. “You could be a model!”

“You’re up, Mathilda,” Bekah tells me, and I occupy the chair of honor. She takes my hair out of the bun I had it in and begins to section it, looping and clipping it in place before working her magic.

My hair is down to my waist-- I’m going to miss it when it’s gone, although I know it doesn’t really suit me. After a certain age, practicality supersedes vanity, and I’m at that point. It was one thing when I was twenty-something and it was the color of maple syrup, but I’m creeping up on sixty now. It’s not stunningly silver, it’s just streaky…I’ll get it bobbed, short enough that it doesn’t take hours to dry, but long enough that Titus still has something to run his fingers through….

While Bekah divides and plaits my tresses, Helen and Trixie are sitting in the little waiting area chatting. Trixie is talking about her horse, and the ranch where she wants to go riding with Bobby tomorrow. That way he’ll be out of their hair so they can go sight-seeing.

I have to give Trixie credit--I’m pretty sure it’s more a case of getting their parents out of the way so she and Bobby can have fun--she makes it sound like routine baby-sitting.

One thing that can be said for my streaky hair, it looks quite striking when it’s braided and coiled around my head. I elect to skip the glitter, but Bekah dresses it up with some blue and white lace.

“Your turn, Helen!” I call, and they look up to ooh and ahh at my new look.

“I don’t know--” she hesitates. She fingers her hair as if asking it what to do.

Trixie turns to me. “Aunt Mathilda, could I borrow a pair of shoes from you? These thing I have on don’t go with this dress at all.”

Blue denim wedges with white polka dots were adorable with the denim capris she’d started out in, but she’s right--they’re all wrong with the glamorous peacock dress. “We can run over to the yard and pick something out while your mom decides what she wants to do,” I suggest. “Helen, it’ll take us maybe a half-hour to get to the car, drive to the yard, find some shoes and get back. You’re in good hands.”

Helen looks less than thrilled--I’d say it’s more like panic, but really, she’s an adult woman. I’m sure she’s had her hair styled before. And frankly, I’m ready for a little break from her company.

Together, Trixie and I exit the salon.

 

….


	9. Crowning Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen gets a haircut, among other things.

“The first thing we need to do is wash your hair,” I say briskly. “I can’t do anything with it when it’s all gummed up with hairspray.”

“I really didn’t--I wasn’t planning to--” Trixie’s mom stares at me, wide-eyed. 

“You owe it to yourself,” I tell her. “I’ll bet you’ve been wearing your hair that way for thirty years.”

“What’s wrong with that?” She sounds defensive.

“This isn’t 1989.” Really, that big pouffy hair of hers is _so_ out of style anything would be an improvement. “I’m willing to bet you aren’t wearing the same clothes you did thirty years ago. No great big shoulder pads or leg warmers in your closet, are there? You know they wouldn’t suit you any more. You’ve raised a family, so I’m sure you’ve had more than one car in all that time, because cars wear out, and you want your kids to be safe. Well, your hair deserves to be updated, too--it’s your crowning glory, after all.”

I only know Mrs. Belden from what Trixie has told me, but it sounds like she’s a good mother. The trouble is, a lot of times being a good mother translates to putting herself last.

Her expression…I don’t know her well enough to tell whether her feelings are hurt or she’s afraid of change. Maybe both--I’m not a mind-reader and I don’t want to be, but at the moment, a clue would be helpful.

“I’m not going to start hacking your hair off without permission,” I reassure her--she seems more nervous than anything else. “I’m just saying, the way you’re presenting yourself isn’t as flattering as it could be. I know this is what you’re used to, but what looked good in high school…now it makes you look like you’re trying to look young, and that never works. I promise, the right cut can help you look ten years younger.”

She’s staring at her reflection, not happy. This is Trixie’s mother? Trixie is one of the sunniest people I’ve ever met--she may have gotten her coloring and the shape of her face from this lady, but not her temperament, that’s for sure!

While she regards her image, I quietly tidy up my station, putting away the clips I used to section Mathilda’s hair, the glitter I’d decorated Trixie with--that was an idea I saw on You Tube, and I think it’s going to catch on--and make sure the glitter-covered towel goes into the laundry bin. Let her think about it…she really could do so much better.

“I like my hair,” she says in a little voice.

“The nice thing about hair is, it grows back.” I laugh. “That’s what keeps me in business!”

“You won’t cut it too short?”

Victory! She’s almost there. “Nothing too severe, I promise. I’m thinking that here it is, May…if we give you a cut where the hair is off your neck, you’ll be cool and comfortable for the summer months. You do a lot of gardening, Trixie tells me--won’t it be nice not to have it straggling in your face when you’re out weeding the tomato patch? By Labor Day, it’ll be close to the length you have now, if you really want to go back to the old style.” 

I may be fibbing just a teeny bit. The front will be the same length, but the back will take longer than that--I’m hoping she’ll like it so much she’ll never go back.

Trixie’s mom is tense while I wash her hair. Trixie’s is finer, silkier, with natural curls. Her mother’s hair is more coarse, with a little wave to it….I can work with that. Although honestly, I wish I could slip her a Xanax to get her to relax and enjoy the process.

When she settles into the chair, I do my best to put her at ease. So I talk about Trixie. Mostly I reference things she’s told me about living on the farm or working at the salvage yard. I don’t say that she’s peeved by her mom’s surprise visit, that she was mad enough that she and Jupiter almost eloped to Vegas, that she’s being beastly about Mart’s boyfriend, which really sets Trixie off, because she likes Ben.

I do, too--he’s a semi-regular. He comes in once in a while for a cut--currently he’s growing out an awful peroxide dye job--I had nothing to do with that!--he was in a few weeks ago, as a matter of fact. He brought me some gorgeous ruby-red grapefruit and we chatted about their produce business. And chickens. I love cock as much as the next girl, but that boy goes on and on about his poultry.

When I ask her to say ‘hi’ to him for me, she stiffens even more. I didn’t think that was possible. Then I see the tear streaks on her cheeks.

Carefully, I set down my scissors. The last thing I want is to accidentally whack a hunk of hair off because she went off while I was trimming. “Helen?” I feel a little funny about that--why do I feel like class distinctions matter to her? but being formal with a lady crying in my chair is foolish. “What’s the matter?”

“That boy!” she sobs. “He seduced my son!”

Good golly Miss Molly. I’ve heard Ben’s side of things--enough to know that they’d just clicked, the way people do sometimes. Mart goes to a barber shop out in Orangewood, so I don’t know him except through Ben and Trixie, but after hearing Trixie going on about her mom’s antipathy toward Jupiter, I suspect she wouldn’t be happy no matter who her children were seeing.

“Ben’s a good kid,” I say firmly. “He had a messed-up family life, but he’s stayed out of trouble. And it sounds to me, from what he says, that he really cares about your boy and the farm.”

“He’s--they’re--” Her face is flaming. “I caught them _kissing_. On the lips!”

“People in love tend to do that.” She cries harder. When I rest a comforting hand on her shoulder, she flinches. 

Honestly--how in the world did this woman produce Trixie? Trixie asked me about myself when we first met, but she absorbed the answers and has been perfectly fine around me since then. Of course, she’s about twenty-five years younger than her mom and more flexible. With Helen, changing her thinking is even harder than getting her to change her hair.

“What the world needs now, is love, sweet love. That’s the only thing that there’s just too little of--” I warble an old song my mother used to sing. Pretty sure she got it from her mother. 

“I don’t want him to be gay!” she laments. “I want grandchildren!”

“You have four kids. The odds are, you’ll wind up with a few sooner or later.” She’s still leaking tears, and I hand her a fresh towel. “Who knows, maybe they’ll adopt. But as long as they’re happy together, you ought to be happy for him.”

“Why should I take advice from a drag queen?” she snaps.

Silence is the best reproach. She doesn’t know who I am any more than she knows who Ben is--or her own children, for that matter. I’m thirty-five and comfortable in my skin--and honey, I worked hard to get where I am. It’s going to take a lot more than a petty middle-aged housewife to rattle me.

“Do you want me to finish cutting your hair?” I ask with exquisite politeness. It’s got some shape to it at this point, even if it does need a little detailing. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

At least she’s stopped crying. I wet a towel with cold water, wring it out and give it to her to blot her face. “Let’s get it done, then. You’ll want to look nice at the party.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude,” she says a few minutes later.

Drag queen?! Nope, nope--let it go. The last thing I want to do is to debate gender politics with Helen Belden. At the same time, she needs an attitude adjustment and I figure better from me than her kids. I’m older, I’ve been through shit--and I don’t _have_ to deal with her after today.

“Sweetie, Bekah Baxter is who I am. Are you right- or left-handed?”

The question puzzles her. “I’m right-handed, why?”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve always been right-handed. What kind of question is that?”

“In schools, they used to force left-handed kids to use their right hands to write with, just because they thought that was the ‘correct’ way. Didn’t mean the kid wasn’t left-handed, though, because that’s hard-wired in your brain. It’s less common than being right-handed, but it isn’t a choice and it isn’t _wrong_.

“Same thing here--I tried to be what society wanted me to be, but it didn’t come naturally. It was exhausting., to tell you the truth. It wasn’t until I embraced who I am--the one and only Bekah Baxter! --that my life felt right. It confuses the people who are hung up on what plumbing I have--I was born Damian Baxter, but that’s never who I was inside. Never mind what’s between my legs--what’s between my ears has always loved pretty dresses and painting my nails and playing with hair and make-up. That’s not being a ‘drag queen’, that’s being a happy, productive human being.”

Helen gazes blankly toward the front window. I wield my scissors in silence, letting my words sink in. “I wouldn’t be upset if he was left-handed, so I shouldn’t be upset because he’s gay.” she says at last. “That’s what you’re saying.”

“That’s the gist,” I agree. 

“When you say Ben’s family was ‘messed up’…in what way?”

Being a stylist is like being a bartender--or a priest. People tell you all kinds of things, and you’re expected to be discrete about repeating them. On the other hand, once she understands he isn’t some kind of home-wrecker, she’s more likely to be sympathetic. So I give her a little background, without spilling all the beans.

“The way I understand it, his mother came from old money and his dad wasn’t exactly a pauper. Trouble was, they were both spoiled brats--that’s not what he said, but draw your own conclusions. His mother was disappointed that he wasn’t a girl, and his dad was a busy executive-type. They got divorced when he was, I want to say about six? Pretty young, anyway.” Ben may have told me, but the exact details escape me--I’ve slept since then.

“After that, they fought for custody, but that was just a power play, because no matter who ‘won’, he went to a series of expensive boarding schools. Summers he spent here in Rocky Beach with his grandmother on his mother’s side. About the time he graduated from high school, his mother married a man with three daughters and moved to Florida. I don’t think she’s had any contact with him since. When his dad found out he was gay, he cut Ben off completely. He had to drop out of college and ended up taking care of his grandmother, who was going downhill with a heart condition. She died a few years ago.” 

“That’s tragic. Every child has a right to be loved.”

I smile to myself as I finesse the hairline at the nape of her neck--I knew she’d be sympathetic. “There wasn’t any estate, so he worked wherever he could--bussing tables, washing dishes, delivering papers. He was overjoyed when Mart offered him a job. I have the impression that Mart and Trixie are the closest thing he has to family.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me…Bekah.” She hasn’t addressed me by name before this. I view it as a sign that she’s accepting me.

“Sure. Like I said, he’s a good kid--even if he does go a little overboard about chickens!”

She laughs. I have a feeling she’s heard about the chickens. And Trixie’s horse, too, no doubt.

“So, are you ready to see your new look?” I inquire, pleased by how it’s turned out. 

At her nod, I spin the chair around so she can see the mirror again, and she gasps. Gone are the dated 80’s layers. She now sports a face-framing cut that tapers in the back while still having height and volume elsewhere.

Helen tilts her head from side to side, peering at it as if she doesn’t recognize herself. 

I am a goddamn artist, I congratulate myself. Whether or not she likes it, she _does_ look at least ten years younger. It’s a very flattering shape for her.

Hesitantly, she reaches up to stroke the fringe that softens her forehead. I worked with the wave in her hair, which flips up and looks downright sassy. She glides her hand down to the base of her neck, feeling for herself how short it is. 

She hasn’t said anything, but she isn’t screaming or crying, so that’s good. After what feels like about five minutes, she looks up at me. “I look amazing.”

I grin, vindicated. “Yes, you do.”

She smiles, and I see where Trixie’s dimples come from. “Could you do my make-up, too, please?”

 

…


	10. Lunch at the Rosedrop Cafe

Of course, the plane is late. We should’ve been there with time to spare, but the plane is late and it takes forever to get our luggage. By the time we get our rental car, I feel anxious, worried that we’ll miss Trixie’s luncheon entirely, but Honey is unflappable.

If I had to navigate the Los Angeles traffic, I’d be a total nervous wreck, but she steers us confidently through the maze of freeways to the town of Rocky Beach.

“We’re not _late_ late,” she murmurs. “It’s starting at one, and it’s just one now, so relax.”

Mummy hates being late for anything; she says it’s rude--her idea of on time is twenty minutes early--and that’s kind of rubbed off on me. I don’t say that, though, because there’s nothing Honey can do about it. We’re here to see Trixie and celebrate her big birthday, that’s the important thing.

Rocky Beach is a picturesque little town. As we pull into what passes for their downtown area, I notice old-fashioned wrought-iron lampposts with big glass globes marching in a row along the street. The landscaping is colorful, with palm trees and tropical plants. I recognize hibiscus--I;ve seen it before, in Florida--there are scads of those in shades from scarlet to pink to yellow. There are also lots of shrubs with broad, dark green leaves veined with streaks of yellow and red….

“Isn’t this cute?” I say admiringly. I want to pull out my camera and start snapping pictures. “I love all these Spanish-style buildings with red tile roofs. And look at that darling little movie theater--the Swan!--talk about Art Deco! No wonder Trixie’s crazy about this place!”

We turn at the next side street. It’s lined with assorted businesses, from delightful-looking boutiques showcasing trendy clothes to a hardware store to Swells Surf Shop.

“Aha--’Municipal Parking’!”

“And look, there’s the restaurant!”

“Why don’t I let you out and I’ll park the car?” Honey suggests. “Just don’t tell her I’m here, I want it to be a surprise.”

The building housing the Rosedrop Cafe probably dates back to the turn of the century. The Gilded Age theme is played up with antiqued brass sconces flanking the entrance and sinuous Art Nouveau lettering on the window in gold leaf promising Rocky Beach’s premiere fine dining experience.

“Ooh la la,” I whisper as I enter. Oh my--is there such a thing as tasteful Victorian bordello?. Chandeliers dripping crystal prisms dangle from the plastered ceiling. The room is ringed with gilded sconces of a similar aesthetic while the tables are swathed in lace and there are roses everywhere--in bud vases on the tables, the wallpaper, the carpet pattern…. 

“May I help you?” asks a hostess. 

“I’m here for the Belden party?”

“Certainly. They’re in the private dining room, right this way.”

And la-de-da. A private dining room. Sure enough, the hostess leads me to a large room off to one side. A huge round table dominates it, and for a moment, I don’t recognize anyone at all.

Then there’s a shriek, and one of the women bounces up and dashes over to me. “Di! Gosh, it’s great to see you!”

“Trixie?” I’m in shock at the sight of her. Honey said she’d been growing her hair out, but wow! Today it’s styled with a crown of braids twinkling with gold accents. Not only that, but she’s immaculately made up and she has on a drop-dead gorgeous dress. “You look amazing!”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, yourself,” she grins and throws her arms around me. Up close, there’s a soft woodsy fragrance and a hint of something sweet.

“Phooey--the plane was late and I probably look like the wild woman of Borneo.”

“Ha, as if you could ever look anything but glamorous. I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Uncle Monty sends his love,” I say, because I’m afraid I’ll spill the beans about Honey and spoil the surprise. “I was at the ranch for a couple days first. Tucson to LAX was running behind schedule.”

“You’ll have to tell me how everyone on the ranch is doing, and everything about everybody in Sleepyside. I can hardly wait to get caught up!” She turns to the ladies ringing the table. “This is my wonderful friend, Diana Lynch--”

“Is there room for one more?”

“Honey!” Trixie’s greeting is even louder, which doesn’t exactly surprise me. We’re good friends, but Honey was her _best_ friend. They cling together for a long moment. Lucky Honey. I don’t feel jealous, exactly, just a little lonely.

“Let me look at you!” Honey finally manages to extricate herself from Trixie’s bear hug. “Wow. California really agrees with you. You look fantastic!”

“So do you! Not nearly as uptight as you were in Santa Barbara!” 

Honey has on a sleeveless green dress with an all-over design of ferns. With her tawny hair and hazel eyes, she looks like a wood nymph. Still, Trixie outshines her. It’s her glittering crown and the divine peacock-feather dress that fits to perfection--even little golden sandals--the whole thing is so much more effort than I’ve ever seen her make that I’m stunned. I've always thought she was pretty--now, she’s simply fabulous.

We join the crowd around the table, and Trixie introduces her companions. There’s Mathilda and Maggie, Bekah and Henrietta and a woman in a pink floral dress who she doesn’t introduce. 

“Hello, I’m Diana Lynch,” I say to her.

“It’s good to see you again, Diana.” The voice is very familiar.

“Mrs. Belden?! Oh my goodness, I didn’t even recognize you!” I clap my hand over my mouth, because that was tactless even for me, but fortunately she isn’t offended. 

“I got a new hairstyle,” she smiles. It’s short, stylish and very becoming.

“It really suits you, Mrs. Belden,” Honey chimes in. “And that dress is perfect--especially in here!”

I wind up seated between Bekah and Henrietta. Bekah is African-American, thirty-something, beautifully put together. Her voice is a throaty purr, and when I look at her more closely, I realize she’s transgender. When I compliment her on her amazing manicure, she’s graciously modest, and presents me with a business card: Crowning Glory, Styling by Bekah Baxter.

On my other side is Henrietta, a slender redhead who’s around our age, maybe a year or two older. Her chestnut hair is close-cropped, but even the severe hair style doesn’t detract from her amazing bone structure. While the rest of us are all in dresses, she has on a teal blue trouser-suit. The color contrasts stunningly with her fiery hair, and the ruffled white shirt showing under the tailored vest helps to give her the appearance of a Regency dandy.

Honey is across from me, with Mrs. Belden on one side and Maggie on the other. Trixie, between her mother and the woman she addresses as Aunt Mathilda, keeps glancing at me and Honey as if it’s all she can do not to abandon the party and run away with us. Honey must be getting the same vibe, because I hear her mention that we have open-return tickets so we can stay and explore for a bit. Trixie’s expression brightens.

The Rosedrop’s menu is certainly impressive. Trixie tells us proudly that they get most of their produce from Belden Farms, and she recommends several dishes that she likes. I elect to try the Gruyere souffle, which sounds heavenly.

“Although if she has you to dinner at the farm, she may prepare the Wilderness Salad for you,” Aunt Mathilda says with a little smile.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Trixie chuckles. “My version isn’t quite so fancy--I use Rice-a-Roni instead of risotto. Same asparagus, though!”

When our entrees arrive, my souffle is just as scrumptious as it sounded. I’m not paying a lot of attention to the conversation across the table, too busy enjoying the smoky flavor of the cheese, which is enhanced by a hint of nutmeg.

I’m suddenly aware of the change in atmosphere around the table. I look up and catch Trixie’s eye enquiringly.

“My mother can’t get over the idea that I’m not a virgin any more,” she states.

“That’s bull!!” Henrietta retorts. “Virginity is an archaic social concept created by men who thought their dicks were so important that they could change who a woman was!”

Across the table, Mrs. Belden sits rigid with shock. Meanwhile, Aunt Mathilda and Honey are both trying not to laugh. Maggie and Bekah are less restrained. That certainly is one way to look at it….

“You ought to be happy that it was her choice.” Henrietta points her fork at Mrs. Belden. “Her first time was with someone she cared about--she wasn’t forced or coerced or--” It’s clear to me that she’s upset--and from her bitterness, it’s obvious why.

I gently rest my hand on her forearm, and she stops in mid-sentence, staring at me. There are tears glistening in her wide blue eyes. “I’m really sorry,” I say to her quietly. 

Henrietta blinks, and a tear streaks down her face.

She turns back to her plate, not looking at me or anyone else. Her voice wobbles. “I’m just saying it could be worse.”

“You’re lucky, Trixie--Jupiter Jones is a big ol’ teddy bear,” Bekah pipes up. “Mathilda, remember when he stepped in at the last minute when Arlo Dalton broke his leg?” She's successfully drawn attention away from Henrietta, who's pushing bites of food around on her plate without making an attempt to eat. Everyone seems relived by the change of subject.

Aunt Mathilda chuckles. “I certainly do! The Rocky Beach Playhouse was staging _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ , and our Eddie broke his leg in a surfing accident a few days before we were due to open. We thought our prop man would have to go on stage with a script, but Jupiter showed up at the dress rehearsal with the part memorized.”

Honey giggles. “I can see that! Eddie was the Meatloaf part in the movie,” she reminds me. “And Jupiter is a big guy, so it makes perfect sense.”

“He was in show biz as a kid,” Trixie pipes up. “Do either of you remember _Quiz Kids_? He was Baby Fatso. Of course, he was about five at the time.”

I vaguely recall the show--I’m pretty sure my younger siblings have watched it in reruns, too.

“Really?” Mrs. Belden is startled. “My goodness, Trixie, I remember you used to love that show! And he was in it? What a remarkable coincidence! It’s one of the few shows I felt comfortable letting you kids watch, because it was so wholesome. Not all smut and violence.”

“He got teased about it a lot at school,” Henrietta contributes, sounding only a little strained. “The kids called him Baby Fatso because he was chunky in those days. He used big words all the time, too, so a lot of kids thought he was stuck up.”

“He joined the wrestling team in high school,” Aunt Mathilda recalls. “He lost about thirty-five pounds. That, plus a growth spurt, and I certainly wouldn’t call him fat any more.”

“He’s not.” Trixie says it with an innocent expression, but her mother rolls her eyes.

“You’re from around here?” I ask Henrietta. Hopefully that’s a nice, neutral question.

“My whole life,” she nods. “My mom, too. My dad is from Denver.”

“I’ve always thought people came to California--to get into the movies, and all,” I comment. “I never really thought about people being from here.”

“Sure! You’d be surprised.” She has a lovely smile. “Pretty people have been coming here for decades trying to break into show business. They end up marrying other pretty people, so southern California has the best-looking population in the entire United States.”

Across the table, Honey and Mrs. Belden are smiling at something Maggie is saying. Trixie is laughing. It’s so wonderful to see her again. We talk on the phone often, but it’s not the same….

As we’re finishing our lunch, we’re joined by a tall, distinguished-looking man with silvering hair, who swoops down to kiss Trixie’s cheek. “Happy birthday, my dear! You look exquisite, simply exquisite!” 

Trixie beams. “Thank you, Jean Francois! Everything is wonderful, as always. Let me introduce you to my mother, Mrs. Peter Belden--”

“It’s easy to see where Trixie gets her looks, madame,” he says, bowing over her hand. 

“You’re--you’re Jean Francois Vidoq--the Shouting Chef!” she stammers, staring at him.

“Yes, I am,” he agrees, amused. “Although I try not to shout at my guests--only my cooks, if they do not perform their jobs properly!”

Trixie pulls out her camera--apparently she’s had it tucked into her bra--and snaps a picture. “So Dad can see the look on your face, Moms,” she declares. “Jean Francois, let me introduce my other guests--” She goes on to present Honey and me and Henrietta, seeming to be perfectly comfortable with the celebrity chef. How did that come about, I wonder?

The restaurateur is very charming. He, Aunt Mathilda and Maggie seem to be old friends, he and Bekah are cordial. He greets Henrietta and me in a way that makes me feel as if it’s the highlight of his day. He and Honey converse briefly in French, and he promises us all a special dessert with his compliments.

“How on earth do you know Jean Francois?” her mother demands once he’s departed again.

“Aunt Mathilda brought me here for lunch not long after I got here. You may have noticed the prices are a little pricey? Well, I had the Wilderness Salad, and I said I could make the same thing with Rice-a-Roni and it would be just as good. And it is!” she insists to our laughter.

“Anyway, I felt bad about making fun of his cooking, so I brought him some marmalade as an apology. He loved it so much, he started buying it in bulk--I spent about six months doing nothing but brewing marmalade in my so-called spare time. He was using it in a seasonal recipe, but I kept bringing him fresh produce when I dropped off the marmalade, and he started ordering more and more from Belden Farms because we’re local and organic.”

The grand dessert is a Baked Alaska with rose-flavored ice cream over angel food cake with a delicate raspberry puree filling. The meringue is piped into fanciful shapes, lightly garnished with chocolate shavings. It really is lovely.

Trixie mentions that she and Bobby have plans to go riding tomorrow, would Honey and I like to join them?

Honey agrees with enthusiasm, but I haven’t been on a horse in…at least two years--aside from the riding I just did at Uncle Monty’s ranch--and I’m still sore from that.

“I think I’ll pass,” I say regretfully. “I’ve never been the rider that you two are. I think I’ll take my camera and wander around town…I was fascinated by the character of this place when we were driving in. Rocky Beach is such a scenic little town, I’d love to get some pictures!”

“If you’d like a tour guide…” Henrietta murmurs, “I’d be happy to show you some of the local landmarks.”

That’s a great idea. I agree that a tour guide would be wonderful. I’m sure Trixie and Honey will have a fine time, and this way, I won’t feel like the odd girl out. I’m sure with Henrietta for company, I won’t feel lonely at all.

…


	11. Men at Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and his dad help out around the farm getting ready for the big party.

I didn’t expect to be doing farm chores on vacation, but it’s not so bad. It’s basically just picking stuff for tomorrow’s deliveries, not building a barn or anything.

Moms is out and about today, so Dad and I came over to the farm. I thought we’d be hanging with the bro, but Mart and Ben put us to work. They need to get everything done before 2, because that’s when Jupiter is going to show up and start putting things together for Trixie’s party.

I thought that’s what Moms was going to, some kind of party Aunt Mathilda was throwing, but Mart explains that that’s a ladies’ lunch--this evening, all Trixie’s friends are coming over to celebrate. 

“We’re getting a cake, and we have hot dogs and hamburgers to throw on the grill,” Ben tells us, “but everyone’s bringing potluck, so it should be interesting.”

“I hope Mrs. Salazar brings her tamales.” Mart smacks his lips. “That’s one of the things I love about California--real Mexican food!”

“How many people are you expecting?” Dad wants to know.

Mart and Ben exchange glances. “I have no idea,” Mart confesses. “Jupe called everybody--I think he swiped Trixie’s phone and cloned her contact list--probably a few dozen, why?”

“At least!” Ben adds, deftly trimming asparagus. “We had what, forty-something people at the Halloween party last year?”

“True, but a lot of them were friends of friends. Anyway, we have four dozen each of dogs and burgers, and supposedly the cake will serve forty, so we’ll see. It’s a giant sheet cake,” Mart explains. “And Jupe is bringing ice cream.”

“Four dozen each?” Dad looks over from the row he’s working in.

“We’ve got a freezer--we can stash leftovers in there if there are any.”

I’m busily bundling the asparagus together with rubber bands. There probably won’t be anybody my age there. But, I remind myself, so far everybody I’ve met here has been pretty cool, so it might be fun anyway. If nothing else, I’ll get plenty to eat.

There’s a list of who’s getting what--tomorrow is mostly commercial deliveries. Of course, I’ll be out riding with Trixie, the ‘rents will be sightseeing--so it’ll be Mart and Ben on their route as usual.

We finish the asparagus and go on to pick tomatoes. Dad has questions about the produce operation and wants to know what their plans are for expansion. That depends…Mart goes off into excruciating detail about things they want to do and what has to happen for them to be able to do them.

Like, there’s some factory they want to buy, so they can make marmalade in bulk. Except the place has been closed down for years and they’d have to overhaul it. Massively expensive!

“What makes you think something like that would be successful?” Dad wants to know. 

“Because we’ve got Jean Francois on our side. Come on, Dad, you know who I mean--the Shouting Chef, that guy on TV that Moms is crazy about.”

“Oh, him.” Dad sounds underwhelmed. “What’s he got to do with it?”

“He’s been paying top dollar for all the marmalade Trixie’s been able to can. He uses it in a recipe at several of his restaurants…that’s how we got solvent. It’s all we’ve been able to do to keep up with his demands--but if we had a bigger plant, we’d be able to use his endorsement to market to the legion of foodies who follow him.”

“Artisanal marmalade was a good selling point even before Jean Francois got involved,” Ben chimes in. “Being able to say he’s one of our best customers would be added cachet for our brand.”

Dad doesn’t look convinced. “You’d have to sell a hell of a lot of marmalade to recoup the costs of buying and refurbishing your plant,” he points out. “And while you’re doing that, what happens to the produce business?”

While they’re wrangling about that, I let my mind wander to tomorrow. I wonder what kind of horse I’ll be riding? The Wheelers have thoroughbreds, of course, but the horses I saw at Willowcrest yesterday weren’t…they were…quarter horses, maybe? Trixie would know. I like to ride, but I’m more about the activity and getting out and going places than I am a horse nut.

Mr. Coltrane seems pretty cool. Will he ride with us? Will he be here tonight? If he is, I can ask him more about his ranch.

I daydream my way through the crop-picking, working my way through tomatoes and spinach, carrots and celery and onions all while imagining myself mounted on a fiery steed stopping horse thieves and earning Mr. Coltrane’s eternal gratitude. Or rescuing Trixie, who’s been trapped in an abandoned gold mine that’s had a cave-in. Or saving her from a snake-bite--out here, it’s probably rattlers, not copperheads, but wouldn’t that be something? Anyway, it might just prove to ever-vigilant Moms that I’m not a child any more.

That segues into my favorite adventure, the one where I’ve hit the road in my own truck--I call it ‘Old Blue’--getting to see all the things I’ve only heard about: finding out what’s so great about the Great Lakes, seeing the mighty Mississippi, Mount Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains…. Here I am in California, and I’m not even going to get to see any redwood trees because they’re a few hundred miles up the coast. But no, we leave the day after tomorrow.

At one point, Ben goes off with a bunch of fresh spinach. Mart says to Dad, “I really appreciate you not making a big deal about me and Ben. I know it could get you into trouble and I promise, we won’t do anything that could get you fired or demoted or anything.”

Dad blinks, startled. “What do you mean, get me in trouble?”

“A few years ago, I heard you talking to Moms,” Mart sounds hesitant. “You were saying something about a guy you worked with, that he wasn’t going to be promoted because he was gay.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who was it?”

“I don’t know.” Mart shrugs. “I just…it was five or six years ago, about the time I was starting to realize I preferred guys that way….” He gnaws his lower lip. “Arty? Alfie? Something like that.”

Dad sucks in a breath. “Archie?” Then he starts laughing. “John Archer?!”

I remember Mr. Archer--he was one of those guys who was big in the Chamber or Commerce and the Elks Club and stuff like that. He and his wife moved away a few years ago. He was a heavy-set guy, always wore suits and ties, very serious…and gay on the side? Wow.

“Archie wasn’t gay,” Dad says when he finally stops laughing. “A few men from Sleepyside were in New York for a bachelor party and they caught him dancing in a Gay Nineties review--a burlesque show--wearing petticoats and fishnet stockings. Unfortunately for him, banking is a conservative profession. People doesn’t want to turn their money over to someone they think isn’t going to be careful with it, and that means being circumspect in all aspects of your life.”

“Is that why he moved away?” I ask, curious.

“I suspect it contributed,” Dad agrees. “Personally, I think it was a harmless enough hobby--but the disciplinary board probably felt differently. From what I hear, he’s up in the Boston area now, working with a charity that has a more liberal point of view.”

“So, me being gay…”

“Is perfectly mainstream. In fact, one of our younger loan officers is gay, so a gay son wouldn’t be an issue. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned him, because I didn’t think it was terribly important--”

“Of course, he’s not sashaying around in fishnets and petticoats, either,” I comment dryly.

“Fishnets and petticoats?” Ben is back with bottles of water, which he passes around to us. “Excuse me? That was a long time ago--I was in college, for crying out loud!”

We all scan him--blue jeans, grimy tee shirt, honeybadger hair and all--and Mart drawls, “We were talking about somebody back in New York, actually--but you can tell me all about your adventures in cross-dressing later. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“Oh.” Ben winces, but Mart and Dad are both smiling. I’m having a tough time picturing it and I can’t decide if that makes him less cool or more.

With everything picked and packed, we head back into the dome. Lunch is egg salad sandwiches. The egg salad is pretty good--there’s some kind of pimento relish in it giving it a little bite--and I eat three of them. Dad give me the hairy eyeball, but Ben and Mart just grin. 

“Let him, Dad,” Mart says. “He’s been working like a horse--you both have, and we really appreciate it. You’re supposed to be on a vacation, you didn’t have to spend hours picking produce.”

“Besides,” Ben adds practically, “we can downsize the rest of the egg salad into a smaller container so we’ll have more room in the fridge for leftovers. People are bound to bring things they don’t want to take home--it’s the nature of potlucks.”

Jupiter shows up shortly before two. This time. he’s wearing clothes.

He and Dad shake hands, and Jupe says something about how he isn’t trifling with Trixie’s affections, he wants our dad to know that his intentions are honorable. It’s all dressed up with five dollar words-- kind of like Mart does sometimes, only more so, if you know what I mean.

“She’s young,” Dad tells him. “Please don’t rush into marriage--give her a chance to enjoy her youth before she has to settle down and be responsible.”

“Trixie’s one of the most responsible people I know…but I agree, we both need somewhat more maturity than our current levels.” 

The we get busy unloading a truck full of tables and chairs he’s brought. There’s a little wrangling about the best configuration to set them up in behind the dome--that’s where the grill is, and taking into account which way the wind is blowing so the guests won’t be getting a lot of secondhand smoke…but listening to Mart, Ben and Jupe reminisce about last year’s Halloween party, I’m starting to look forward to this shindig. 

It’s four o’clock, and the guests are supposed to start arriving around five, when Ben gasps, “The cake! We still have to get the cake! And the Silver Bullet is full of produce--what were we thinking?!”

“I’d offer to get it while I go change my shirt,” Dad apologizes on his way out the door “but I doubt it would fit in the trunk of the rental.”

“Baby,” Mart says, and I think for a second that he’s addressing Ben, but the latter nods.

“Of course--Baby. That’s our retired vehicle--we stashed her in the barn when we got the new truck-- but she’s gassed up and good to go.”

“Wait, the hearse?” It’s big and blue and probably as old as Dad“Can I ride along? Please? I never rode in a hearse before!”

Mart snickers. “Sure, why not? I’ll probably need a hand wrestling that gargantuan cake.” He flutters his eyelashes at Ben. “That way, you can suitably decorate the tables without my input--I don’t give a darn how they look, as long as there’s room to park my plate.”

When we got out to the barn, Mart hands me the keys. “You’ve got your learner’s permit, right?”

“Yeah!” I’m so excited I can hardly breathe.

“So, I’m gonna let you drive up there. That way you can say you’ve _driven_ a hearse.” He winks. “I’ll take over on the way back, for the sake of the cake. It’s only a few miles and the roads shouldn’t be too busy--but you can also say you’ve driven somewhere besides Sleepyside.”

I’m used to driving our minivan, which is pretty big--but Baby is even bigger. It has power steering that squeals when I make the turn onto the road out front. It’s thrilling, but I’m super careful. If I screw up, I will never, ever hear the end of it from Moms, I’m certain. She’s edgy enough about me driving around town with her. Even worse, I’ll have to pay for repairs, which would wipe out the money I’ve been saving for my truck.

“Turn in here,” Mart directs, and I pull into the lot in front of a building decorated like a wedding cake with a sign advertising ‘Sugar Dreams’.

The cake itself is an enormous rectangle of buttercream. ‘Happy Birthday Trixie!’ is scripted in blood-red icing, and there’s a picture of playing cards--Queen/King/Ace of Hearts with the legend ‘21!’. I think it’s cool--I’m not sure the folks are gonna feel the same way, though.

We carefully wrangle it into the back of Baby. “That’s weird,” I mutter. “Hauling a birthday cake in a hearse? Kinda creepy, if you ask me.”

Mart shrugs as he gets into the driver’s seat. “We hauled tons of produce in it before we got the Bullet. I’m pretty sure it’s not haunted or cursed, or whatever your fertile imagination is fermenting.” He adjusts the seat. I didn’t touch it when I got in.

Maybe Ben was the last one to drive Baby? He’s several inches taller than Mart. As of last Christmas, I know I’m not quite as tall as Brian, but I’m definitely taller than Mart. Holy cow, when did that happen? I grin. Maybe I should point that out to the folks? Anything to stop being ‘little Bobby’! That’s more Moms than Dad, but I haven’t heard him disagree with it.

The cake barely fits through the front door, but we get it inside and park it on the big table.

There are two people who weren’t here when we left. Jupiter introduces then as Mrs. Salazar and her grandson, Eddie. Eddie is about my age, and he’s fiddling with a guitar and an amp. I guess he’s the entertainment?

I introduce myself, and he wants to know if I play. He shows off with some flashy chords, vaguely familiar, and I have to admit that no, I don’t play any instruments. I can rebuild a carburetor, though.

He grimaces. “I don’t even have my license yet. Nona won’t let me. She says that’s why God invented buses.”

“Mart just let me drive his hearse,” I offer, “when we went to get the cake.”

“Cool.”

“How do you guys know Trixie?” I ask, to keep the conversation going.

Eddie glances across the room and lowers his voice. “Last summer, I ran away to L.A.--I wanted to break into the music business,” he says quietly. “It didn’t go so good. Trixie and Jupiter found me and got me home. Nona thinks they’re great.”

“You don’t?”

“Ah, they’re okay. They bought me lunch and didn’t give me a lot of shit about running away.” His fingers pluck a haunting melody. “They just remind me that I failed.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t make it next time you try. You’re pretty good, you can’t just give up.”

“I’m not good enough--yet. I’m gonna finish school first. There’s a technical program I’m interested in at the Guitar Institute. I figure it’ll give me an edge if I know how to rig sound boards, or maybe I’ll get into building custom guitars.” His face lights with enthusiasm. “There are a couple of big-name luthiers in L.A., I’d like to apprentice with one of them. That way, even if I don’t end up being a superstar musician myself, they may end up playing axes I made.”

He’s so sure of himself. He’s got a plan. I have a plan, too, but I’m starting to realize that it’s kind of open-ended. 

Okay, so I go on the Great American Road Trip. Then what? Yeah, there’s a lot I want to see, but sooner or later, I’ll be ready to settle down somewhere…and do what? Do I really want to be a mechanic for the rest of my life? I mean, I like working on cars--but with most new cars these days, it’s not so much about fixing them as it is replacing components. Yawn.

Taking stock, Brian is in med school--he’s always wanted to be a doctor. Mart has the farm and he’s making plans for years to come. Trixie--I don’t know if she has anything as concrete as plans, although Jupiter Jones definitely factors in somewhere--she may or may not have plans, but she certainly seems to be having more fun here than she did in Sleepyside. I need to ask her about that.

This vacation hasn’t been what I expected at all, but it’s been an eye-opener in more ways than one.

 

…


	12. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Trixie's friends gather at the farm to celebrate, Helen gets a better idea of what her daughter's life in California is really like.

I understand--truly, I do. Honey and Diana are Trixie’s closest friends and have been for years. Still, seeing her joyfully embracing them hurts awfully when I contrast it with her reaction to seeing me. Making polite conversation during lunch feels like one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.

There are four of us left around the table now. Maggie and Bekah and that hostile redheaded girl have gone. Now Trixie and the contingent from Sleepyside are laughing about things that happened when they were younger and what they’ve been doing since while Mathilda and I sip coffee. If I cherished the notion that Trixie confided in me, I realize there was a lot I didn’t know about.

I mean, I knew she had some close calls, but this is the first I’ve heard of her nearly being kidnapped in New York City or being threatened by a man with a gun in a barn upstate--and at some point, she and Honey pursued a poacher in the Wheeler’s game preserve that turned out to be Mr. Maypenny--but what if it _had_ been a poacher, did she ever stop to think of that?

Diana has taken up photography, which I’d heard in the village, and apparently it’s more than a hobby. Honey is still in college, but she’s talking about transferring from the Ivy League school she’s attending into a program for Hospitality Management; she wants to be an events planner. Trixie, meanwhile, seems to be going in a half-dozen directions at once. She’s enthusiastic about her job at the salvage yard, about her horse, the farm, making quantities of marmalade, contributing to a soap opera (Really?!) and a side-line of helping people solve their problems.

“A soap opera?” I ask, bewildered. “How in the world did you get involved in that?”

Trixie glances over at me, surprised, as if she’d forgotten I was here. “Last summer, I went to a wedding with Jupe and they were filming at the hotel we were staying at. I got to be an extra, and I talked with some of the writers…they liked my ideas. Sometimes I go visit the set and we schmooze about what’s going on and what I think should happen next, and sometimes they actually do it.”

“And she got me Don Dix’s autograph,” Mathilda laughs. “I’m happily married, but I’ve been watching him on _Fame and Fortune_ for years, and that was such a thrill!”

“Kind of like you meeting Jean Francois,” Trixie adds with a smirk.

I think I’m blushing. “I admire his talent.” The girls giggle, and even Mathilda snickers at that. “And he’s certainly distinguished-looking. I never thought I’d meet him, much less have him cook for me.”.

By now, it’s past three o’clock. I wonder what the boys are up to. Peter said they were going to help out on the farm. Knowing him, he wants to see where our money is going. We’ve been subsidizing most of the children’s expenses since they’ve been here. He says it’s comparable to what giving them both college educations would’ve cost us. 

The outlay worries me, since we still have Bobby’s education to pay for, and we’re at the age where it’s time to look ahead to retirement. Peter’s just turned fifty. Aging--that’s a whole bundle of trouble right there--we aren’t getting any younger. The farm seems to require more and more effort every year, and we have less and less help since the older children have left the nest. I can see the day coming when the garden shrinks to a row of tomato plants by the backdoor and I buy eggs instead of keeping hens, buy jam instead of canning it. Of course, since our family is half the size it was, it isn’t like the grocery bills will be out of sight. One teenager may eat a lot, but not as much as having three of them at the same time!

And of course, the older we get, the more likely we are to have medical expenses, in addition to upkeep on the farm itself. The farmhouse itself is almost two hundred years old and will need a new roof within the next few years. The garage used to be a carriage house; it’s seen a century, plus. Peter’s been shaking his head about the electrical out there. Things like filling in ruts in the driveway, reinforcing the chicken coop…all of those activities take time, effort and money. I don’t like the idea of Peter going up and down ladders at his age--he has a sedentary job, the last thing we need is for him to fall off the roof or electrocute himself.

“I need to see Mr. Przewalski,” Trixie says when Mathilda asks her what her plans are next. “I want to see how things are working out with him and Danny.”

“Who’s Mr. Przewalski?” Diana asks, beating me to it.

“He’s the sweetest old man! He lives across from the salvage yard…he’s in his nineties and he was in World War II and traveled a lot when he was younger. He’s awfully frail now, though. I’ve been stopping by almost every day, but he really needed someone to stay with him. Ben--you’ll meet him later, he’s Mart’s significant other--he recommended a friend of his who just moved in yesterday. I need to make sure things are running smoothly.”

I want to ask why _she_ has to be the one to manage this, when Mathilda says quietly, “He really is a dear. He’s been in that house since before Titus was born. He lost his wife a few years ago, poor man, and there isn’t any family--they never had children. He doesn’t have a lot of time left--he has severe emphysema--we all want him to be comfortable at home and not in some facility.”

“Remember when we were talking about Grandpa Belden last night?” Trixie asks me earnestly. “I wish I could remember him, but I don’t, not really. Mr. P. is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a grandfather and I adore him. He’s got such great stories about his adventures when he was young.”

“While you’re doing that, maybe your friends would like to look around the salvage yard,” Mathilda suggests. “You don’t want to overwhelm him with too many new people.”

“Okay, but Moms should meet him. He’d like that.”

When we arrive at the Jones Salvage Yard, Honey and Diana cross the street and go in, while Trixie leads me to a modest bungalow next to the parking lot. Sitting on the front porch are a young man (about the age of Mart or Brian) and an elderly gentleman who must be Mr. Przewalski. He’s very pale and there’s an oxygen canister beside the rocking chair he’s seated in.

“Danny was just telling me about sea turtles,” the old man tells us. “It’s very interesting. He’s going to be a marine biologist, you know.”

“I have a test on Monday,” Danny explains. “I remember things better if I can talk about them.”

“Everything going okay?”

“Oh, sure. Tell Ben thanks again for me, would you?”

“Is he that one that was here yesterday? The one with the funny hair?” I bite my lip at the old man’s words, because my son’s ‘friend’ has about two inches of blond hair at the end of very dark roots. I have nothing against tinting one’s hair, but it ought to look natural, which his doesn’t.

“That’s him. I’m really glad he thought of getting the two of you together, and I’m happy to hear it’s working so far.”

“But you won’t stop coming to see me, will you?” Mr. Przewalski asks anxiously

“Of course not!” Trixie answers quickly. “But now I won’t spend my nights worrying that you’ve had a fall or can’t get to something you need.” She presses a kiss on his cheek.

My heart nearly bursts with pride. I remember what Mathilda said earlier about Trixie’s character, and I reckon that it’s true. I don’t approve of her premarital activities--and learning that she spent time with Jupiter in a hotel _last summer_ , well, that’s upsetting…but she has a good heart. Here she is, taking time on her birthday to visit a sick old man and worrying about his well-being. That’s what I’d want one of my children to do.

We visit for a little while. Mr. P. greets me with a wheezing declaration that Trixie is an angel and that I must be divine myself to have raised such a paragon.

“I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow,” she lets him know, “but I’ll see you the day after, probably after noon. My folks are flying back home then.”

“Lovely to meet you, ma’am,” he says, and the younger man echoes him as we depart

Honey and Diana elect to explore the salvage yard further and meet her at the dome later, so Trixie ends up driving me back to the farm. During the twenty minute drive, she points out familiar landmarks, such as the Finest Kind Farm Supply store, the county agricultural center and a run-down old factory.

“That’s where I found Cecil. Poor baby, he was penned up with no food or water--his first owner wasn’t right in the head, he just abandoned him there!” Trixie is indignant, which doesn’t surprise me, knowing how much she loves animals.

“How do you know he wasn’t stolen?” I have to ask.

“Oh, we went to a show last summer--that’s where I met Mr. Coltrane, he told me about Cecil’s past. He owns the ranch we’ll be riding at tomorrow--Cecil’s sire is his stallion, Drop Cloth. He’s the most gorgeous Appaloosa! Cecil’s dun grey, they call it gruella…not fancy, but he’s such a sweet boy!”

“I’m glad you finally have a horse of your own. You’ve wanted one for so long.”

“I’m really lucky.” Trixie’s sincerity is heartfelt. “He’s very well-behaved. He likes everybody, he doesn’t get upset in crowds, like at shows, or when we were in the parade. He’s amazing!”

I feel decidedly low in the pecking order--I come somewhere after her boyfriend, his aunt, her friends and her horse--probably lower than that…but she goes on.

“We’d really like to buy that cannery, except it would probably cost as much to refurbish it as to buy the plant.”

“What in the world for?”

“Oh, Moms! Soon it’ll be time to start simmering more marmalade for Jean Francois again, and I really don’t look forward to doing it in five-gallon batches in slow cookers on the kitchen counter every day for months on end! Being able to brew a hundred gallons at a time would be so great!”

Surely she’s exaggerating. She doesn’t sound like she is, but I’m trying to imagine the amount of prep to make gallons of marmalade, and doing it repeatedly…for months? Trixie, the girl who could hardly wait to get out of the kitchen after an afternoon of canning tomatoes? And here she is, imagining a marmalade empire? Really? I suppose it isn’t any stranger than Honey Wheeler anticipating a career as an events planner, or Diana Lynch as a portrait photographer--Trixie Belden, maven of marmalade? Well, it could be worse--at least she isn’t chasing criminals!

“That’s the work truck from the yard,” Trixie says, puzzled, as we pull up in front of the dome. “I can’t get around back with it parked there…let’s go on in, I can move my car later.”

As we walk in the front door, a half-dozen people chorus, “Surprise!” and someone plays the first few chords of ‘Happy Birthday!’ on a guitar.

When I say a half-dozen people, I mean strangers--Mart, Ben, Bobby, Peter and that Jones boy are there as well. A toddler--not more than eighteen months--runs up to Trixie, who scoops her up and starts cooing at her in Spanish.

Soon I’m being introduced to the little girl’s parents, Maria and Luis. The child’s name is Beatriz, in honor of Trixie, who’s her godmother. 

“She drove to the hospital when Maria was in labor,” Luis tells me, “And she was right there when Beatriz was born.”

“She’s an angel!” Maria contributes, pushing back a strand of her long dark hair. “She brings us tomatoes sometimes, and she’s been so helpful about baby-sitting when my family is busy.”

Trixie, meanwhile, has the little girl riding on her hip as she circulates. It’s a bit alarming, how comfortable she looks with the little one. Jupiter leans in close to kiss her cheek, calling her the most beautiful woman in California. I remember the condom under her pillow and wonder if I ought to get her more of them.

There’s a tall man in fancy Western clothing--the much-touted Mr. Coltrane. He’s accompanied by a striking blonde woman decked out in more turquoise jewelry than I’ve ever seen in one place before. The couple is a good deal dressier than anyone in Westchester, where even old money doesn’t often trot out the family diamonds and pearls. They both have nice things to say about Trixie and I ask them to take good care of Bobby during their ride tomorrow. 

“I understood he rides back East.” Mr. Coltrane raises one silver-blond eyebrow.

“Well, yes, but he knows the area. And the horses belong to friends of ours, so he knows them.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t turn them loose unsupervised--Patsy will be along to keep an eye on things.” He nods at his companion. “Last thing we need is to have to mount a search party. The trails are pretty well marked, but no sense taking chances.”

Which is a very sensible attitude--I’m reassured.

More and more people are coming in, all of them bringing food and many of them bearing gifts. Everyone from our luncheon turns up eventually, along with two brothers who also work at the salvage yard, as well as Mathilda’s husband, Titus. Quite a few people are introduced as salvage yard regulars; there are merchants from Rocky Beach and Orangewood…it’s difficult to keep everyone’s names straight, but when they find out I’m Trixie’s mother, everyone praises her to the skies.

During a lull--a lot of guests, having deposited their food and gifts and greeted the birthday girl, head out to the backyard, where Mart has fired up the grill--I’m approached by Jupiter.

“Mrs. Belden, it’s good to see you again,” he says as solemnly, as if our first meeting had been under commonplace circumstances. “May I say, I like what you’ve done with your hair? Also, that’s a very flattering frock. The color suits you.”

He reminds me of Mart in the way his vocabulary is a little on the wordy side. But with a very different background, I recall. “Your name came up at lunch,” I remark. “Is it true you used to be Baby Fatso?”

Jupiter changes color faster than my old mood ring. “That was a long time ago.”

“Trixie used to love that show.”

His brown eyes shift in her direction and his expression softens. He’s regarding her with an expression I can only call worship. Yes, she looks dazzling this evening, but I suspect he’d be just as smitten if she was still wearing capris and a shirt. He’s completely forgotten I’m standing here, but this time, I don’t mind. It’s clear as clear can be that he adores Trixie--he’s _not_ just using her.

“How did you get into show business?” I ask after he’s had a moment of lovelorn gazing.

“Oh, that--my mother wanted to be in the movies, but it didn’t work out. She started taking me to auditions, and it turned out a friend of the family knew a casting director who was looking for talent for a kids’ show--that was _Quiz Kids_. The rest is history.”

“And now you work at the salvage yard with Trixie.”

He smiles. I have to admit, he’s quite nice-looking. The shirt is a little loud, I think…still, he has broad shoulders and muscular arms…didn’t Mathilda say he used to wrestle? He’s certainly big and sturdy enough. And he’s nicely groomed; so many young men these days go in for unsightly beards, but Jupiter is clean-shaven.

“Yes, ma’am--it’s a real family business,” he states with pride. “The Jones Salvage Yard was opened in 1947 by my grandfather and his brother--it was mostly army surplus back then. In those days, it was called Jones Junkyard. My great-uncle didn’t have any kids, so the business passed to my dad and Uncle Titus. My mom and dad died in a car wreck when I was a kid, and that was the end of my show biz career. Aunt Mathilda is kind of the opposite of a stage mother!”

“We had a very nice morning out,” I tell him, preferring to dwell on the pleasanter aspects of the day. “I met your other aunt, too.”

“I’m fortunate,” he agrees. “My family is unusually harmonious.”

Trixie is at the front door, squealing as a small crowd of people enters. They’re actors from that soap opera she was talking about earlier, and one of them seems to be an old friend of Jupiter’s. 

“Jupe, you can yak with Pete later!” Trixie says. “Run and get your aunt, but don’t tell her why!”

“Excuse me,” he says, and departs as ordered. 

Mathilda enters a moment later. “Trixie, what’s the big--” She skids to a halt, her mouth hanging open, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s having another stroke.

“Wilton Parmenter!” she gasps. 

One of the newcomers smiles broadly. “Nope, I just play him on TV,” he says, clearly used to this reaction. “You must be Trixie’s aunt. She’s told me a lot about you.”

Mathilda is blushing to the roots of her hair. I wonder if I looked that way when I met Jean Francois-- it’s a combination of pleasure and embarrassment--but I really do understand how she feels!

Titus Jones steps forward. There’s a resemblance between him and the actor--Mathilda’s type seems to be tall and dark with a little salt and pepper--but Parmenter, or whatever his name is, takes better care of himself. Titus looks more weather-beaten; sun-block and moisturizer would help with that.

“You’re rendered my wife speechless!” he booms. “Do you give lessons?”

“Titus!” Mathilda elbows him in the ribs, scarlet with mortification and both men chuckle.

Trixie introduces me to Angie. Black hair spills to her waist and wide green eyes sparkle as she says hello. Her accent is familiar; I can tell she’s a New Yorker even before she mentions growing up on Staten Island. She’s an actress, dating Pete, a stuntman who’s one of Jupiter’s boyhood friends. 

Other members of the party are a producer and a couple of writers. Trixie greets them all like old friends. Since she’s been gone, I’ve worried that she was all alone out here with only her brother for company--but clearly that isn’t the case. There are a dozen people hanging out in the dome, and another dozen outside (at least!). She isn’t lonely, isn’t pining away for Sleepyside…I need to resign myself to the fact that this is where her life is now. 

While Mathilda is regaling them with questions about her beloved daytime drama, I slip outside.

As I surmised, there are well over a dozen guests seated at the tables set up on the lawn. Mart is manning the grill, joking with one of the ladies who runs the inn we’re staying at. The scent of smoke and broiling meat perfumes the air. It reminds me of the cookouts we used to have on the terrace at home when the kids were little. I smile wistfully. Who was it that said you never know when you’re doing something old and familiar for the last time?

“Hi, Mrs. B. Would you like me to get you a burger?” It’s Ben, looking expectantly at me for an answer. He must see something in my face, because he asks, “Is everything okay?”

There’s real concern in his voice, and I clutch his hand, sorrow welling up. He leads me around the side of the dome, away from the noisy party. We’re behind Trixie’s bedroom. I give in and cry. “Everything’s over!” I sob. “I can’t make it go back to the way it was and I’m not ready for it all to change!”

Ben’s a relative stranger, but he puts an arm around me and pats me on the back. “I’m sorry.”

I try to pull myself together. “They’re still my babies.” I remember skinned knees and tantrums, strep throat and school troubles. I could help with those things. Now all I can do is watch and hope that they’re learned how to cope. I cry some more, because I feel so helpless.

“It’s hard to lose people,” Ben says quietly. “My grandmother was sick for years. She was having a rough time and I knew she wasn’t magically going to get better--but I still wasn’t ready for her to go.”

“I should be glad they aren’t dead, is that what you’re saying?” I know my voice sounds sharp, but what a terrible thing to say!

“No, ma’am. That’s not what I meant. Just…change is hard. Mart and Trixie are lucky. You love them, you worry about them…my parents don’t give a damn about me. Nana was all I had. It was horrible to see her in pain, but I was scared to death at the idea of being all alone.”

Poor boy. He may be slightly older than Mart, but if Mart is still a baby, so is this one. He’s brave to show me his vulnerability…I know I haven’t exactly been kind to him. Oh God, I’m crying again….

He lets us into Trixie’s room and sits me down on the bed. In a moment, he’s fetched a cold moist washcloth for me to wipe my face with, and a handful of bathroom tissue to blow my nose in. That’s very thoughtful of him. He isn’t who I’d prefer for my son, but he’s not lacking in empathy.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry if I--” I have to stop, tissues pressed to my face. 

“It’s okay, Mrs. B.” he assures me. “He’s worth it. He saved my life, he really did. I was at the end of my rope trying to find a job, and he came along…I didn’t expect to find love, too--but I did.”

“Take good care of him,” I plead.”I just want him to be happy--want them both to be happy--”

He nods, looking solemn.

“You should probably get back to the party,” I say. “I’m just going to sit here for a little while and pull myself together. I’ll be okay. And Ben? Thank you.”

About ten minutes later, the door connecting to the dome opens, and Mathilda steps in. Ben must have let her know I was here. She closes it behind her and perches on the trunk at the end of the bed, the one containing Trixie’s prized saddle. She regards my tear-stained face for a moment.

“Helen, may I ask a personal question? How old are you?”

“I’m turning forty-nine this year, why?”

“I thought so.” She nods. “Now, I know this is none of my business, but I’m concerned. When is the last time you had a thorough check-up?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” I retort. “I’m perfectly healthy!”

“Except for mood swings and crying jags,” she counters. “I remember going through the same thing about ten years ago. I was a holy terror, ask anyone. I could’ve been prosecuted for child labor violations the way I kept Jupiter working--and it’s a wonder Titus didn’t strangle me for all the nagging I did. When you get home, go see your family doctor and look into hormone therapy. I’m not saying you aren’t healthy, I’m saying you’re going through menopause. It’s perfectly normal, but it’s also hell on your nerves.”

It’s true, my cycle isn’t as regular as it used to be, but the prospect of being done with that is a relief. “I don’t like taking drugs.”

“It’s not, it’s replacing a substance that your body can’t make for itself any more. Really, it helps. Talk to your doctor--please? You’ll feel so much more like yourself if you aren’t having to cope with freaking out over every little thing. Trust me--my boys breathed a huge sigh of relief when I got on hormones and stopped being a harpy about what a mess the yard was.”

I can’t picture Mathilda freaking out; she comes across as one of the most laid-back people I’ve ever met. She also has a decade of experience that I don’t…I know children don’t necessarily value age and experience, but I do. And she’s right: I may be physically healthy, but I know I’m not okay.

“I’ll look into it,” I say at last. “Maybe I won’t feel so…worried all the time.” 

I hate to admit that; I was raised to be responsible and do what needs to be done. Not fret endlessly about what could go wrong. Like the children going riding tomorrow--they’ve both ridden for years and I never thought twice about it--but now I’m apprehensive that something terrible will happen. If Peter’s late getting home from work, I’m certain he’s been in an accident. I fear that Brian will catch some awful disease from one of his patients. I’m scared that the house will be struck by lightning and burn down while we’re away--I never seems to be calm any more. 

“Really,” she assures me. “You’ll feel _so_ much better when your hormones aren’t out of whack. It’ll take a little while to get you back to par, but you’ll look back at how you feel right now and wonder how you got into such a state. Cross my heart, Helen.”

I wipe my face with the clammy washcloth, feeling more in control of myself. “Thanks, Mathilda. It’s a relief to know there might be a sensible reason for why I’m so upset all the time.”

“Sure, I get it. It seems like every tiny little detail is vitally important, that you’re the only one who cares, you have to manage every single thing because you can’t trust anyone to do it properly--”

“Yes, exactly!” Sometimes, I’ve thought I was losing my mind. Certainly my family has been annoyed by what they call my ‘micromanaging’--Bobby, especially, seems impatient with me every time I open my mouth. “And sometimes it’s the silliest things that set me off! I’m going to call Dr. Ferris for an appointment as soon as we get back.”

“Wonderful.” Mathilda really is a lovely person. I’m so glad Trixie has someone to offer mature guidance in my absence.

“I think we ought to get back to the party, don’t you?” I blot my face one last time and blow my nose on the last of the tissue. “After coming all this way to celebrate Trixie’s birthday, I’d hate to miss any more of it.”

The thought that there’s a legitimate reason for my mood swings--well, it isn’t a cure, but I do feel better. My meltdown may have destroyed my make-up, but it’s restored my spirits. For the first time in ages, I have an appetite again. 

Ben brings me a burger. I visit the buffet that’s set up and sample Mrs. Salazar’s tamales, a delicious bean-and-corn salad, potato salad, vegetarian lasagna--in short, I make a pig of myself.

Everything okay?” Peter asks me as I’m wiping up the remains of a taste of the Coltranes’ chili with a bit of hamburger bun.

Even after all these years, I still think he’s one of the handsomest men I’ve ever met, including Jean Francois Vidoq. He’s sober, responsible and kind--I really believe he’s the perfect man. “I love you so much,” I say to him with a pang of gratitude, and he looks surprised.

He takes a seat next to me, looking as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I love you, too.”

“And just think--tomorrow we’ll have a whole day to ourselves to see the sights. Won’t that be fun? I can’t remember we had a day together to do what we want, just the two of us.”

Peter’s smile still gives me butterflies. “I think it was that weekend in New York when your sister stayed with the kids. We stayed at that hotel near Central Park and went to how many museums?”

“I remember it vividly--I came home from that trip pregnant with Bobby. That’s almost sixteen years ago! We really should get out more.”

“I think Bobby can be trusted on his own for a night or two.”

I shove away the stab of apprehension. I’ve got to get my head on straight. Even if Dr. Ferris has a treatment for me, it’ll probably take a while to be effective…. “You know what I’d like? I’ve like to drive up to New England some weekend when the foliage is changing. I mean, I know we have foliage at home, too, but the scenery is different. And we could stay at a nice bed and breakfast somewhere and I wouldn’t have to cook.”

He chuckles and gives my hand a squeeze. “That sounds like a plan!” he declares. “And maybe this summer, we could go to the shore for a few days. It would be great to be at the beach without having to ride herd on on the kids for a change.”

As much as I miss having the children close by, the thought of spending quiet time with my husband is appealing. Maybe an empty nest has its perks, too!

I’m sated, more relaxed than I’ve been in an awfully long time. It’s a nice party. There’s a boy about Bobby’s age playing the guitar--he and Bobby are chatting in between songs. Diana Lynch is giggling with Henrietta, the redhead from our lunch party. Honey, Mart and Ben are talking animatedly near the grill, which seems to have served its purpose for the evening. 

It’s funny how many people I know, considering I’ve only been here for forty-eight hours. Maggie is admiring Patsy Calhoun’s finery. Angie is talking to Bekah, who’s combing fingers through her hair and doubtless planning to make her look even more fabulous. Jeremy Coltrane is engaged in a spirited conversation with that producer--I think Trixie said his name is Kirby? Jupiter and his friend Pete are laughing uproariously at something. 

Trixie drifts from group to group, making everyone welcome. Some of the gold glitter has drifted south, twinkling on her face and dress. Her braids are beginning to look a little fuzzy as hair escapes from them. “She looks beautiful,” I say out loud.

Peter smiles again. “She looks just like you. Except for the hair--that cut looks very nice, Helen.”

I pat it self-consciously. “You don’t think it’s too short?”

“No, no…it shows off your bone structure.” He kisses my cheek. “I like it.”

I make a mental note to thank Bekah again before I leave--and to show it to Nelda, my stylist back home before it grows out too much--although it’ll probably be late August before I need much of a trim. “I like it, too. It’s going to be so much more comfortable this summer!”

It’s barely spring in Sleepyside, but it’s so balmy in California it’s easy to believe that summer is right around the corner. Summer…and adventures with Peter….

As the sun goes down, the crowd relocates back into the dome, where cake and ice cream are served. It’s a little crowded; people have brought chairs inside because there isn’t nearly enough seating, otherwise. The mood is still festive.

When we’ve all finished our dessert, Trixie opens gifts. Mart makes a comment that all the guests were asked for was pot-luck, but he’s hooted down by people who don’t seem to think that bringing a casserole is enough of a birthday present. There’s a pile of wrapped packages on the coffee table, and Trixie works her way through them with appropriate expressions of delight.

A lot of the gifts are in the form of services--styling from Bekah, gift certificates for local businesses, a tune-up courtesy of the two strapping blond brothers who work at the salvage yard, dinner a deux at the Rosedrop--but others are more substantial. There’s a locket from Beatriz to her godmother, an elaborate mirror framed with painted tiles from the Salazars, a hand-crocheted afghan from someone else…through it all, Trixie displays unflagging enthusiasm. I can’t imagine what she’s going to do with a sculpture made out of rusty old car parts given to her by someone named Malachi--but she claps her hands together and thanks him with every appearance of sincerity.

Honey Wheeler makes a list of who contributed what. Sweet of her--and good to know that Trixie plans to send ‘thank you’ notes.

It’s well after nine by the time she’s done and the crowd finally thins out. After all the hustle and bustle, the only ones left are Beldens, Joneses, Honey, Diana and Ben--and of course, he lives here. At this point, it feels as if we’re all old friends.

“We do have something for you, sweetheart,“ I tell Trixie as I retrieve my purse. There’s a card, signed by all of us. Peter slipped a check inside--and my gift. I had a few doubts about giving it away, but after seeing how much more grown-up she is than the girl who left Sleepyside a year-and-a-half ago, I’ve decided it’s time to pass it on.

She gapes at the check--how much did Peter give her, for heaven’s sake?--then hugs us both fiercely. “This is fantastic!” she crows. “I know what I’m going to get…a horse trailer, so I can move Cecil without calling Jeremy every single time!”

_A horse trailer_ I remind myself that my husband isn’t careless with money, that he wouldn’t have given it if we couldn’t afford it--but…enough for a horse trailer? 

"Used, of course,” she adds. “Baby has a trailer hitch--I can use her when I need to, can’t I, Mart?” 

“As long as you pay for the gas,” her brother says with a laugh. “But I warn you, unencumbered by a trailer, she gets about twelve miles on the highway and ten around town.” 

She opens the little box my gift is in and looks up at me, stunned. “Grandma Alice’s charm bracelet? Oh, Moms! Are you sure?” She holds it up, a circlet of sturdy links laden with charms, all of them 14-carat gold. My favorite was always the miniature watering can. Of course, Trixie squeals at the tiny horseshoe. 

“It’s a family heirloom,” I say, taking it from her and fastening it on her wrist. The gold charms glow and sparkle. “I grew up admiring it--my mother wore it constantly, and Daddy gave her charms every year for her birthday and special occasions. And someday--years and years from now!--you’ll pass it on to your daughter.”

“Years and years and years, Trixie!” Mart pipes up helpfully.

My daughter blows a raspberry at him. “Thank you, Moms.” She wraps her arms around me and kisses my cheek and her blue eyes are shining. “I will take extra super good care of it, I promise.”

“Don’t wear it riding tomorrow,” Honey advises. “You remember what happened that time with the wrist compass!”

“I won’t--but that reminds me--Dad, you know that ring? The one in our safe deposit box? I’d really like to give it back to Jim Frayne.”

“You don’t have to do that, Trixie!” Honey exclaims in dismay. “He gave you that as a thank you!”

“I know, but…one, it’s a family piece, and he doesn’t have many of those. And two, he was fifteen at the time. It’s easy to dismiss something like that at fifteen--but he’s grown up now. One of these days, he’s going to wish he had it to give to someone special--and that’s not me."

“Oh, but he didn’t--”

“And besides,” Trixie says firmly. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to have an engagement ring from another man.” Jupiter appears gratified.

“I think she’s right, Peter,” I agree. “She’s old enough to make up her own mind, and I can’t fault her reasoning."

“I’ll get it out of the box and bring it by after we get back,” he says to Honey, who shrugs.

“I’ll let Jim know. We’re probably going to be out here for a few more days. That’s really generous of you, Trixie. It’s a nice ring.”

“It’s a very nice ring--and it came in very handy that time I used it for security!--but I’ll never wear it, and I know it’ll mean a lot to Jim.”

For a long time, I thought Trixie was carrying a torch for Jim Frayne--they’d been involved for a while during high school--but apparently it was puppy love. Of course, if it had worked out, Trixie would still be in Sleepyside, but after seeing her life here and meeting her friends, I think she’s making a success of her life right where she is.

“We should probably get out of here so you can get some rest,” Titus says, shepherding Mathilda toward the door.

“I’ll come back in the morning for the tables and chairs,” Jupiter says with a yawn. “The last thing I want to do is move furniture in the dark. He kisses Trixie affectionately--not being overly demonstrative--and heads out behind his aunt and uncle.

“We should help you clean up,” I sigh, looking around at the detritus of the party. There’s a small mountain of shredded wrapping paper in the living room, leftover food on the table, the kitchen island and the counters, and disposable plates stacked on abandoned chairs because the trash can is overflowing.

“You don’t need to do any such thing!” Trixie chides me. “You should go back to the Bear Arms and get some sleep before your big day of sightseeing tomorrow. You’re probably still a little jet-lagged-- you need all the rest you can get.”

“Oh, but sweetie--”

“Di and Honey are staying the night so we can get up early to go riding. Bobby, too. I’m sure between the six of us, we’ll have this place in shape in no time.”

I didn’t give permission for Bobby to stay, but it makes sense--and I’m tired enough not to argue about anything so minor.

“I brought a change of clothes,” Bobby says, “so I’m set.” He’s got a bowl of chips on his lap and a bowl of something green next to him, and it seems like he’s been eating all evening long. He isn't chubby--what does he do with it?

“Happy birthday, Trixie,” Peter tells her as she hugs and kisses us good night.

She looks from him to me. “Thank you for coming--and for everything else. It turned out to be a good surprise after all.”

**THE END.**

_…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fittingly, this is the 21st story I've written in this series. 
> 
> I've done the math. Since beginning my Trixie 'verse with "The Guy in the Baby Blue Hearse" in April of last year, I've written over 100K words of her grown-up adventures. That's as long or longer than any of the original books! 
> 
> Show of hands, please? How much interest is there in my continuing Trixie's stories? While I have multiple ideas for events I haven't written yet, I could say the same for other, more trafficked fandoms. Trixie/Jupe is a labor of love. I love them. Do you?
> 
> .


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